What I'm Not Doing

Three Trees, Oil on Board, July 2019

I spent the day not gardening or painting. I have the materials all ready to go, but no momentum. The above painting is looking at the cottage I rented last summer, the one in the center. I really enjoyed that place; it has a screened-in porch in the back and is surprisingly well-appointed for a summer cottage. Hardwood floors, a bidet, Penzeys' spices in the kitchen. I'm not renting it this summer because I haven't got anyone to rent my condo for the season. So I get to stay home for the first time in years and years, but make no money. I had to take out a loan, with which I'm not comfortable. At any rate, I need to attend to my garden, as I've been neglecting it over these years. And I need to paint, as I'm supposed to be an artist.

I just attempted to record a video of a little hymn for church, but the choir director gave us a sound track to follow that, I'm sorry, I can't follow. I have trouble with the whole taking-a-video-of-myself thing anyway, but was willing to try until I realized I couldn't make my singing line up with hers. Technology is great until it isn't. I so miss singing with other people and an accompanist.

Tonight would be our second performance night with the Outer Cape Chorale, and it's awful not being able to do that. I feel lost.

Masks

Here are the masks I ordered a few days ago. The woman who makes them does them to order. I got to pick which fabrics I wanted. They're cotton, and adjustable. Hooray! They make my ears stick out a little. Who knew ears could be so soft? But I'll take funny-looking ears when it comes to survival.

I don't look forward to the extra warmth of wearing a mask during the summer. On the positive side, fewer people will be having trouble with basal cell carcinoma this season. 

Coping With It

Truro Winery by Moonlight, Encaustic on board

I'm luckier than some, with a roof over my head, and being relatively healthy right now. That said, I'm sad about so much to do with the virus. I know at least six people with covid19, and many who've lost their jobs or livelihood because of it. The town I live in is going to be devastated by it, as we're dependent on tourism for survival. It's not going away.

The worst part for me is the fact that the Outer Cape Chorale, Chamber Singers and my church choir are unable to meet and sing together. That might sound trivial to anyone not used to singing on a regular basis, but it's a big part of what keeps me sane and healthy. (See the entry on the singing monks.) 

In good times, I spend at least five hours a week singing with others, and more during a concert week. Tomorrow would have been the beginning of our spring concert weekend with the Chorale, three concerts in three days, then an extravaganza of a potluck on Sunday once all the staging and risers were broken down and put away. I'd have spent even more time than usual practicing on my own, getting warmed up beforehand, resting and drinking soup to prepare for the experience. Then there's making sure my all-black concert attire is clean and in good repair. If this sounds like a lot of work, well, it is. It's also joyful and exhilarating to sing something we've worked on for months with 150 other people, and entertain hundreds more. I miss it terribly.

I began writing this blog as a way to deal with this lack of creative outlet, and also to leave something behind in case I contract the virus and don't survive. I didn't think of it that way when I started, but that does seem to be some of what's behind it. So I'm coping. I've also just weed-whacked my dreadful garden, and will put compost and mulch on it to make it a little less dreadful. I bought some painting panels for my artwork in case I ever get the impulse to paint. So far that's not happened. I could beat myself up over it, but I'm trying to be gentle with myself instead. 

I call my mother every other day now instead of every three or four because I know this forced isolation is lonely for her as well as me. Sometimes the conversation lags a little, because nothing much is happening in our lives. I call her anyway. I'm grateful she's 82 and in great health, certainly not needing to be in assisted living or a nursing home. But I fear for her. I keep nudging her to wear her mask and remember to socially distance. It can't be easy to change the habits of a lifetime.

Chicken

Well, we got to the 'sharing' portion of our zoom meeting, and I balked, didn't sing my song. Maybe next week I'll be brave. Not that these people are anything but loving. The atmosphere just seemed kind of fun, and the song would be sort of somber. Excuses, excuses.

The above painting is of Jon Arterton and James Mack's house when they lived in North Truro. It's in the collection of the late Barbara Taylor. The boys didn't snap it up soon enough, as I recall. 

Jon was the director of the Outer Cape Chorale before Allison Beavan took over. He got people excited about singing, and grew the Chorale to about 120 or 150 members, I forget which. He's a hoot, always making jokes during rehearsal. Now he's in the Tampa-St. Pete area directing two different groups, I believe. James has a gorgeous baritone-to-tenor voice, great range. They're both missed around here, naturally.

Spiritual Songs

That's me with the stuffed frog.

Today I listened to Kermit the Frog singing Rainbow Connection, recommended by a member of the UU Meeting House. It was balm for my spirit, something I heard back in my childhood and only half understood. Well, that's the way of children, absorbing things they'll only know much later.

Then I studied several women singing Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child. Bessie Griffin, Mahalia Jackson and Odetta were my favorites. 

I don't know why this song speaks to me, since my mother and I have grown closer now than we ever were during my childhood. I believe we're becoming friends rather than merely playing roles in one another's lives. Mother. Daughter. 

So in a strictly literal way it makes little sense that this song touches me. Then I think of all the friends I have who no longer have their mothers in their lives, for whatever reason. Most of my friends are at least a few years older than I am. I was born after the Baby Boom, so to them, I'm always the baby. Maybe someday that'll change. Hard to say. But I think I'll sing this song tomorrow night at my Chamber Singers Zoom meeting, in case any of my friends there need to hear it.