Reflecting on Solo Sessions 9 and 10

When I started my solo concert series, in September 2022, I had a clear vision of what I wanted to achieve - singing my original songs to small, listening audiences, in interesting spaces around Cape Town, conducive to story-telling. A concept I'd been toying with for years, it became inexorable after the Covid-induced lockdown. For me, it was about fundamental shifts I'd felt throughout lockdown, it was about losing people dear to me, but it was also about turning 60. It hit me, like never before, that I had many more years behind me than ahead, and that I owed it to myself to spend as much time as possible doing what had meaning to me and what made me happy. Performing my original songs to appreciative audiences ticked both boxes, so I decided to put my perfectionism aside, and take the leap. These words, heard somewhere, kept echoing in my mind: "If not now, then when? If not me (singing my songs), then who?"   

SOLO SESSION 9: SAT 24 JUNE 2023

My 9th Solo Session, like my 5th one, was not the full programme, but a shortened version, to fit into a unique gathering. This time, I was at a church fundraiser, as the hired artist. Business-wise, the onus was not on me to sell all the tickets, although I did advertise in my networks, as well. Going into an event knowing I'd earn a certain amount gave me peace of mind, unlike most of my other sessions, where what I earned depended on ticket sales and what my overheads were. To my delight, the venue was filled, and I split my performance into two sets, as agreed - one of originals, with narration in between, and one of covers. The audience enjoyed the music so much, that some even took to the floor to dance. When I realised what a music-loving crowd (+- 80 people) it was, I played well-known songs in my second set, to which they sang along. All in all, it was a very satisfying event. I congratulate the organisers on coming up with the concept, and on its success. The meal was unassuming, simply delicious, and enjoyed by all. As often happens in community events, many of the organisers had donated their own resources. I was reminded of how special the personal touch was, when I opened my gift bag and found not only an envelope with my fee, but a thank-you card, a slab of chocolate and two scarves - every item greatly appreciated!! 

I met lovely people at the event, and bumped into a few acquaintances, as well. It was an afternoon well spent, and an unforgettable time connecting with people who, for different reasons, touched my heart. Well done to the organising team at the Uniting Reformed Church, in St Athan's Road, Gleemoor, for a truly memorable and heart-warming afternoon.  

SOLO SESSION 10: SAT 8 JULY 2023

Five days ago, I did Solo Session 10. This time, I was back at Café Societi, at the Homecoming Centre, in District Six, where I had done my 3rd session in this series (22 Oct 2022).

Pre-paid ticket sales were low, and a few people who said they'd pay at the door, let me know closer to the day that they weren't coming. If you're performing to 100 people, and a few say they can't come after all, it's neither here nor there, but if you have a total audience size of 30, and you'd go ahead even if 10 pitched, when 4 cancel the day before, it's significant. I was faced with the choice of cancelling, because of low ticket sales, or continuing, because of the possibility of walk-ins. For reasons that extend way beyond this one event, I decided to go ahead. I had advertised extensively - particularly on social media, through my email network, on radio stations, in gig guides, on LinkedIn and in all of Cape Town's community newspapers. The venue itself had been advertising my event on its foyer screen since May. There was so much potential for people to pop in on the day. However, that did not happen. Besides the (fewer than 10) pre-paid tickets, only ONE person pitched up and paid on the day. With that ONE person as a paid audience member, I did my show. Others who took in the show were the staff (about 5 people) and other performers rehearsing at the venue, who walked through the foyer and stayed for a few songs. Was it my most exciting moment, as a performer? No! Do I regret going ahead? Definitely not!   

Doing my one-hour solo concert is about so much more than that one hour. Doing all the behind-the -scenes work - in essence, the project management and marketing - takes a lot of time, energy and effort. Because this is a labour of love, I do it with my whole heart. I hope that my show is received with people's whole hearts, and I hope that I get the size of audience that enables me to cover my overheads and earn something for myself, as well. Spending so much time advertising, and working regular rehearsals into my schedule are a huge investment in my project. I invest myself. People understand pure business principles, where money is invested, so they understand that investors have expectations, or desired outcomes. It's the same when you invest yourself. But the truth, for me, is: my biggest expectations are of myself. I ask myself, after each event: Did I do my best? Did I show up for Trudy? Did I show up for my audience? Did I honour my purpose for doing these concerts?  Yes, I have had to postpone two of them, already, both linked to vocal issues, after a bout of flu. But this time was different - I was ready, I was prepared, and I had brought everything that I expected of myself; the only thing I needed (from the universe) was an audience.  

The one person who turned up for my concert was a woman who had taken guitar lessons with me in 2019. We stopped because my schedule did not allow me to teach on Saturdays any longer, and she was extremely disappointed. For years, we had simply lost contact, but after seeing my ad in a community newspaper, she decided to attend, to listen to me performing for the first time. When I saw her, I immediately knew that, even if no-one else arrived, I would happily do the show for her. From my heart.

And I did. And I'm glad I did.

Another very compelling thing for me, about this event, was the venue. For me to perform in that space, right IN District Six, a place that has such significance to me and my family, as well as to many others to whom I'm connected, is more profound than I can explain. Believe me, performing in spaces like that one, the District Six Museum, The Slave Lodge, The Castle.... all of those spaces have stories in their walls, and I love singing my songs, adding my stories to those spaces.   

As usual, the day was not without some magic, which arrived in a most surprising way. My cousin, who had assisted me at some of my shows, had to attend to something urgent, and was no longer available that day. At first I thought I'd do everything alone, but later I posted an appeal for help, on Facebook. Elise Fernandez, a friend I hadn't seen for many years, responded, and ended up making a huge difference to the event. I'd needed help with "door duty", but with there being very little need for that role, she basically sprang into action in another role: amidst all the disappointment, as well as the icy Cape Town winter weather, there she was, an accomplished documentary film maker, happily launching into photographer and videographer mode, without any hesitation. How cool?!

                            Elise Fernandez and I, at Café Societi, at Solo Session 10, on 8 July 2023 

This has been on my mind, since last Saturday's concert: There's an anecdote about a little boy standing on the beach, throwing starfish far out to sea, one by one, after they've washed ashore. A man walks up to him and asks why he keeps doing that, as the sea will just keep washing them up. He tells the boy that he won't make much of a difference. The boy throws the next starfish into the sea and says, "It made a difference to that one."  

(https://eventsforchange.wordpress.com/2011/06/05/the-starfish-story-one-step-towards-changing-the-world/)            

Winter woes, wishes and wonderings

I don't understand how someone who loves writing as much as I do, can blog so seldom. The thing is, I journal extensively, every day, so I suppose I sate my appetite for writing in that way. Also, it's a lot easier to whip out my journal and pen, than to get the laptop ready for writing. And there's something about writing by hand that feels incredibly meaningful. Our area's inexplicable few months of no loadshedding came to an abrupt end on Sunday night, taking me completely by surprise, so typing on a laptop is even more encumbered, with power outages lasting up to four hours, sometimes reaching a total of ten hours within a 24-hour period.    

In the final days of my current part-time job, teaching matric English to adults, I'm preparing my students for their final exam paper, which they write on 9 June. While revising the different types of essays, I realised that my love for writing was essentially a love for reflective writing, more than any other type. Sometimes I venture into an argumentative style, and sometimes discursive, but my default mode is reflective - I see my blog as a type of fragmented memoir, written over many years. It's like Plan B, in case I don't get to write an actual book. I think the contents of this blog could easily make a book. 

Yesterday, I had a very interesting conversation with my son. He's always been a planner of note, thinking things through carefully, and has always spoken about caring for me in my old age. As he, at age 28, tweaks plans for his own life, he wanted to check in with me about how I saw my future. We've had iterations of this conversation many times, so it was not unusual or surprising. What I liked was that he wanted to know my preferences, with the view towards assisting me in ways that suited me. I'm proud of him for having this conversation while I'm still full of energy, relatively healthy, and with all my mental faculties in place. This is the time to have those discussions. Putting them in writing is the next, more formal step. I remember trying to have this conversation with my mom and my sister, years before  my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and let's just say that only one of us was ready for it. It was at a time when my mom was moving into a granny flat, on her own, and I said we should talk about what we would do one day when she wasn't able to live on her own anymore. I was accused of being "morbid", and the conversation simply did not happen. Not then, and not ever. In my naivete, I was surprised that planning for something as natural as ageing - which is the happier alternative, let's face it - was a taboo subject. That was one of the many times that I was shamed for thinking ahead, gaslighted for mentioning something that made perfect sense to me, but that my two closest people were so afraid to confront, that they refused to acknowledge that it merited a calm discussion.

Maybe had we had the discussion then, things would've been different now. But we didn't, and we let life bulldoze us into last-minute, emotional decision making. I made a mental note to do it differently with my own ageing process, and to have those conversations with my children. Anticipating reduced independence and capacity, in one's latter years, is not morbid. It's healthy to do so. We plan for everything else, so why not for ageing and dying? I've discussed my funeral arrangements with my daughter many times, so she knows my wishes. We're all going to die sometime - making arrangements is not morbid. It makes things easier when that time comes, because important decisions will already have been made. 

I've had flu, for a few days. Well, I haven't been to a doctor (no money), but it feels like flu. This time, with laryngitis. I spent three days at home, taking meds we already had, and resting. And not talking. I went back to teach yesterday, and planned to rest my voice until my next class, on Saturday. Unfortunately, that did not happen, so my throat is very sore, once again. My main concern is that I have my next Solo Session in 8 days' time, and I'm worried that I won't be in good voice by then. Postponing a show is such a schlep.  But sometimes unavoidable. 

Winter is indeed here, and I feel like life just gets that much harder, this time of year. It's the humbling season - many more hours of darkness, and it's cold, wet and gloomy. My bedroom is the coldest in the house, with no North-facing windows and my North wall constantly damp, as the rain seeps through, year after year. I watch the damp patches make different shapes, as the rainy season sets in. Loadshedding in winter is particularly depressing. With sunrise so much later and sunset so much earlier, daylight hours are much fewer, so one's need for artificial lighting and heating is greater. 

Life has been unusually tough, for the past 9 months, with the anomaly being my music life. Not that putting on my concerts has not been tough. I look forward to a brighter second half of the year, and a brighter future, in general. South Africa's many problems are another layer of stress, but right now I'm focussing on my personal situation. On Monday, I have a job interview for a contract teaching post. I am extremely conflicted about it, as my passion lies in teaching adults, and this is a high school post. I may not even be what they're looking for. I'll see. All I can be is myself - I have loads of teaching experience, but I've not taught at a high school for 11 years, and I'm sure a lot has changed. I'll see. 

Following up on other leads, as well, as I cannot have another prolonged period of financial stress.   

I think I'll end with a gratitude session.

Today I am grateful that I am alive. I am grateful that, even though I have flu, I am generally healthy.  I am grateful that the students I started teaching in October 2022 are busy writing their matric exams, and that I have played a role in helping them get closer to their goals. I am grateful for how they have impacted on me. 

I am grateful for my children, and for the types of adults they have turned out to be. I am grateful that they have a strong desire to live their lives doing what's meaningful and exciting to them. I am grateful that most of my seeds fell on fertile soil. 

I am grateful for recent time spent with my mother, now 93. I am grateful that, despite living with dementia, she can still play the piano and sing. I am grateful for her life, how it's shaped mine, and the impact it's had on so many people.

I am grateful for my sister, who's been my mother's primary caregiver for the past 11 years. She ensures my mom is kept comfortable, healthy, safe and happy, with all the daily routines necessary. I'm grateful that she also makes time to do things that are meaningful and fun to her.  

I'm grateful for my friends and how they've enriched my life. The older I get, the more I appreciate the importance of friends who don't judge you, and who not only accept you as you are, but who celebrate you as you are. 

I'm grateful for my creative pursuits - music, crafting and writing - and for how they help me navigate life's stormy seas. 

And lastly, I'm grateful for everyone who has helped me through the past 9 months of financial difficulty. Achieving my goal of emerging from this crisis, and having a full-time job, would be both the end of one phase and the beginning of another, as I steadily work towards sorting out the chaos. I am grateful that the wheel has to turn, that endings are in fact beginnings, and that every challenge has taught me important lessons I needed to learn.   

I am grateful. 

       Taught myself to crochet a proper granny square, following a YouTube tutorial.  May 2023          

Bursting with capacity & restlessness

Seems like life has decided I should go through labour pains once a year! 😄 What am I talking about? 

In June 2021, the company I was working for announced its next round of retrenchments, which took me on a journey from being petrified that I'd be chosen, to volunteering to leave. After three stressful months, I left.  People don't realise just how much is involved in retrenchment, and how much grieving takes place, even when you volunteer to leave. You grieve the loss of your income, the loss of routine, stability and employee benefits, even the loss of the place in which you worked, especially if it was aesthetically pleasing. You grieve the loss of access to a diversity of people, because we're still in our silos, as South Africans, socialising with people from the same "ethnic" group, as prescribed by apartheid. But the biggest grief involves close friendships. As much as we say we'll stay in touch, we'll meet for coffee, etc. .... life has a way of adjusting, eventually, so you get used to being without certain people, and all you're left with is the odd phone call or text message. I missed colleagues when they were retrenched, in former years, but with my own retrenchment, my heart ached with missing the colleague I'd worked most closely with - Fatima. She and I worked like a well-oiled engine. We had to deal with so many challenges, but we grew to rely on each other, to think on our feet, and launch into problem-solving mode. We had each other's backs, professionally and personally. There was give and take. We complemented each other. I miss her. I wish she and I could run our own company, with that same irrepressibility and never-say-die attitude. 

Then, in August 2022, in a subsequent job, after months of dealing with a challenging working relationship that was affecting my mental health, I put in writing that, if we didn't sort out the unhealthy communication, I would leave at the end of that payment cycle. The response was that I could leave immediately. Stupidly, I had not signed a contract, so I had no recourse to UIF, etc. I had learnt yet another lesson the hard way. Losing that job catapulted my life into one of the most challenging periods I've ever experienced, and one from which I have not yet emerged.  

On Easter Sunday, this year, my mood dipped so low, that I shook with fear at where my thoughts took me. It shocked me that someone like me, who loves writing bossanovas and drawing daisies, could plunge that far into the abyss. Only one thing ensured I'm still alive today - my love for my children.

What I'm going to write about now has not been put into the public arena yet, but I need to write, and since so few people read my blog, anyway, I'll write it here - I'm going through a labour dispute. It's bizarre that you can be a person with a strong moral code - honest, hardworking, professional - and yet find yourself in the middle of something like this. The only thing that makes it somewhat bearable is that I'm one of seven people going through this together. And that's all I can say, for now. 

But... the most amazing energy has surfaced, in the midst of all of this strangeness! I am bursting with a sense of how much I have to offer! I love teaching, and I believe I'm good at it. I love writing, which is arguably my strongest skill. I love composing and performing music, which I'm relatively good at. Besides being a compulsive writer - and an unintentional proofreader - I have a wide range of work and life experience, including years of personal development, so my so-called "soft skills" are strong. Funny how easily those are dismissed, even in the way they're named, yet there is not one situation where humans do what humans do that does not require them. 

And so, in the interest of moving forward, as an empowered woman, and in the pursuit of joy, peace, fulfillment and the feeling that I'm making a contribution to society - and because I've had enough of struggling financially and living my life at half mast, like I've got something to be ashamed of - I will use all my skills and steadily get myself to where I want to be. I have never let my age hold me back, and in fact I regard it as my greatest asset, because I have so many years of life and wisdom within me. I know myself much better than I ever have, and I will continue to let that self-knowledge guide me when it comes to what I say Yes and No to. 

I am my greatest resource. My networks are my second greatest resource. I am steadily identifying the niche that sees me applying my skills where they are most needed. One thing I'm sure about is that I will not align myself with, or surrender to the inevitability of, mediocrity, unaccountability and corruption. There are enough people with integrity in this world for me not to have to settle for the ubiquitous alternative.                    

     I photographed these trees that I pass, on my way to town. I'm inspired by their beauty and tenacity. 

Ridiculous, or sublime?

How do you vent, rant, whatever the word is, without giving specifics?! 

Right now, I'm experiencing the emotional version of having my guts lying next to me.  I'm going through something which is tearing me apart, emotionally. As much as I'd like to shout it out to the world, for public exposure, all I can do is compartmentalise, and deal with the different aspects separately. 

Oh my word! How frustrating!!!

Every now and then, I come face to face with what is known as institutionalisation. If you've spent most of your life within some type of institution, you are most likely part of this phenomenon. Many teachers, for example, went straight from school to college or university, then went to work in an educational institution. Unless you have other things in your life that expose you to different structures or disciplines, or even less formal pursuits that allow you to have fun and explore the lighter side of life, all you will know is the institutionalised life. Another  example of this is long-term prisoners who, once released, cannot function in the real world. Some even purposefully commit crimes, to be incarcerated again, because they know how to function within those painfully prescribed parameters. 

In 2006, I went back to teaching in a state school, ten years after having left that kind of job. It was slightly different, because this time it was a high school, whereas my previous teaching had been at a primary school. I had never felt more like a square peg in a round hole! My six-month post turned into 18 months, after which I returned to the TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) industry, where I worked as an Assistant Centre Manager until my retrenchment, in late 2010.     

I knew, by then, that my tolerance for certain ways of thinking and operating was limited, and that I'd struggle within rigid hierarchical structures, where flexibility and a caring form of communication were absent, even frowned upon. However, financial need forced me back into the state sector, from mid-2012 to early 2016, after which I worked in the corporate sector, in philanthropy, for five and a half years. Until I took voluntary retrenchment. Even corporate structures can be suffocating. 

But here I am, again - teaching part-time. I love teaching English to my adult students who are completing their matric. And I love teaching part-time. But... there are so many things I wish I could change. I've learnt the hard way, throughout my life, and as recently as August 2022, that, when you speak truth to power, you suffer the consequences if there's no-one or no structure powerful enough to protect you. 

I believe that the decision as to whether I speak out or go quietly into the night was made when I was in the womb.    

Who knows where I'll be in a week's time... in a month's time... in a year's time?    

Maybe teaching English in Mauritius? I've heard they accept over-60s. 

Reflecting, after Solo Session 8

It's hard for me to ease back into the everyday flow of life, after a Solo Session. I've been like this for years, even after gigs where I've done covers. I think one's brain changes lanes, so to speak, when one is immersed in one's passion, lifting one to a different spiritual plane, almost; reverting to the mundane, less inspiring part of life - which for many of us is the bigger part - takes a while.  

Even though I feel like this after all performances, there's something about doing an entire show of my original work, as a soloist, that heightens the intensity of normal pre- and post-gig emotions. The personal investment is so much higher. You're making yourself vulnerable in front of strangers, which can be terrifying. Many years ago, my then-husband told me that I shouldn't sing my songs in public, because they were "too personal". More than twenty years after our divorce, I'm more astounded by the fact that I allowed him to inform my decisions and limit my scope, than that he actually said that (and other things). In different relationships, including platonic, I've often taken a long time to see someone's unpleasantness as being all about them and not about me. As a young adult, I was completely unsuspecting in the presence of spitefulness and manipulation. I'd immediately reflect on my behaviour and what I must have done wrong, amend my behaviour to appease the other person, then be shocked when the verbal attacks didn't stop. 

Two main issues, which I wish we'd learnt about at school, come into play, in the many iterations of this phenomenon: one is a sense of self-worth, and the other is a sense of boundaries. If you have a healthy sense of your own worth, you won't easily believe someone who tells you you're useless - you'd get a sense that they were wrong, or at least that something was wrong. Similarly, with healthy boundaries and the all-important ability to articulate them (as opposed to just withdrawing), you would be able to stand up to others who put you down, and let them know when they've crossed the line with you.    

But, I digress. Or do I? 

Many of my songs were written as part of my journey towards healing - I could often write in songs what I hadn't had the courage to say when the emotional abuse was happening. In fact, the more I sing my songs, immersing myself in my own compositions, the more I lean in to the healing process. 

My set list for this Solo Session included songs I'd already done in this series, as well as others I hadn't. I enjoy the process of letting the set list come together over a few weeks. I'm basically sharing my life story, in these sessions; because the stories are told through music, I try to vary not only the rhythms and tempos, but the mood that each song evokes. This aspect of what I do is not understood by everyone. For some people, if your music is not danceable, they feel something's missing. My music's also not opera, it's not gospel, it's not heavy metal - we could spend all day saying what it's not, but that merely dilutes what it is. In fact, it undermines what it is. This was a lesson I had to learn, in my broader life - to calmly affirm who and what I was, and not to constantly apologise for what I was not. The saying "You do you!" sums it up nicely.      

In one of my songs, I sing, "You looked at me disapprovingly / Your lack of comprehension / Like a solid door / Slamming in my face / You can't stop the flow / You will never know / You never did."   I then go on to sing about how I feel when I sing. It's an empowering song, and one of my personal anthems; I hope that, as I sing it, others start to feel how important it is for us, especially as women, to own what we do, and stand proudly in this world, despite all the restrictions and judgement we face. 

In another, written about the joy I felt in doing ordinary things after leaving my unhappy marriage, I sing: "The sensations are so clear / There's absolutely no fear / Mother Nature when you're near / There are no sharp edges here."

I also sang a 12-bar blues I wrote in 2017, to sing before Cape Town's version of the Sister March, which was happening all over the world, after the USA chose an unapologetic misogynist as its president. The lyrics include: "We don't stand still / We are women on the move / You can't silence us / 'Cos we've got something to say ". 

In a more light-hearted vein, I sang another 12-bar blues, this time a tongue-in-cheek song called Lucy, written after breaking up with someone who was a commitment-phobe: "Now one day Lucy asked him / What happens after this? / She asked him the next year and the next year and the next year and the next year / What happens after this? / And the man said, 'I like it like this / Nothing happens after this'." 

Also light-hearted was a samba called What's What, about how difficult it can be to know what love really is. Some of the lyrics are: "Love has given roots and wings / Sambas. bossanovas, swings / Still I don't quite seem to know what's what."

Two of the more serious songs were "In the Shade of Table Mountain", about forced removals, and "Afternoon Tea", about misogyny. Every song that goes into the set is specifically chosen, to take the audience on a journey that encompasses a wide  range of emotions.

In this concert, I sang a song I'd never sung in public before (as far as I can remember). It's called "Girl In The Mirror", and was written about 40 years ago, when I was in my early 20s. It is about a woman who observes herself changing, to fit in, and does not feel she's being authentic. I hauled it out from a pile of old, old songs, and decided to include it this time. Most of the people who came to speak to me afterwards spoke about how that song had resonated with them.  

Like I did in my 7th concert, I started with the song I sang at age 6, when my teacher made me stand on the table to sing for the School Inspectress. It was a religious song, in Afrikaans. And, like I've done for most of my solo concerts, I ended with what is arguably my most popular song, "Joe". 

There is so much more I could say, but I'd like to share two more things. Firstly, I find it extremely interesting and exciting, doing these sessions. This concert series is something that was brewing inside of me for years, but there was always something holding me back - mainly, fear. But when I did start putting it down on paper, jotting down the elements I had in mind, the particulars that felt right for me, I got more and more excited about bringing it into being.  The systematic, process-orientated side of me knew that, like every other process, things would have to be experimented with and tweaked, over time. I knew that I'd need to be patient - with the process, but especially with myself - to allow the journey to unfold as it inevitably would. I'm at peace with the decisions I've made, and I'm grateful for the help I get with publicising my events beforehand.  I still have the same budget I had for Solo Session 1: zero! All my overheads are covered by ticket sales. You have to start somewhere, if you want to follow your heart. I could've waited a few more years, until I got sponsorship, but that was not an option. When people my age started dying in big numbers, during Covid, I knew I had to seize the day and stop procrastinating. All we have is now. 

And secondly, I knew I wanted these to be intimate sessions, with about 30 people, I knew I was going against the grain, going small. I knew my income from ticket sales would be capped fairly low, with this model. But nothing could have prepared me for the absolute magic of a small, engaged audience! In fact, when I rehearse, day after day, I cannot wait to share what I'm rehearsing with my audience. I want to give them my most well-rehearsed and sincere performance, because they choose to come and be part of my journey, for that hour. And Saturday's audience once again reminded me that what I had to offer was relevant, appreciated and treasured. Even though I didn't set out to put out a message, it seems I am, based on the feedback I've been getting. I feel the energy of the audience, in these intimate settings, and it ends up being a collaboration; in fact, it closes the circle in a way I could never have anticipated.

I am so grateful to be doing what I love so much. Thank you, universe, that I stopped procrastinating, that I stopped limiting myself because of the cruel and judgemental energy from others, and that I finally trusted my instincts and gave myself the benefit of the doubt. It took me a while, but there's no stopping me now. 

My next one will be on Saturday 3 June; I will announce the venue as soon as it's secured. After that, I return to Café Societi, in District Six, for Solo Session 10, on Saturday 8 July.  I did my third session there, in October 2022. 

And now for the bigger dream: I would love to do my show in a professional space, with professional sound and lighting, without the responsibility of marketing and ticket sales, and with my full focus on the performance itself.  Ooh, and while I'm dreaming (the universe wants us to be specific, right?!) I'd also love someone to sort out my outfit and make-up! Who says you can't have dreams at age 61? And who says they can't come true? 😉

                                                     Photo at Solo Session 8, by Jenny Esau

   

Thoughts, ahead of Solo Session 8

Sitting in bed after a nice, hot shower - tired, but happy. In fact, more than just a bit surprised. 

I don't know why I'm surprised, but I must confess, I am. In two days' time, I do Solo Session 8 - this time at the charming Suzie's Coffee Shop, in Kuils River. My last one was at the end of February. The plan was to do a monthly show, but somehow, after my 7th one, I couldn't summon the energy to launch straight into planning the next one. I'm learning to tune in to my energy levels and prioritise self-care by responding in ways that feel natural, and not forced. I decided to take a break, and not do a concert in March. Of course, at the end of March, I had twinges of regret, because by then my energy was restored, but I've learnt to find my peace with decisions I make, and not dwell on what might have been. The break was good. Flexibility is important. When you're tired, you should rest.

And now my April concert is two days away. I can hardly believe it! I have been advertising/promoting the show since early April. Like the last one, this one's tickets also include refreshments. The venue owner gave me her expected minimum number of attendees, and I set my goal at double that number. Today, ticket sales exceeded even that! After all the different ways in which I spread the word about this event, I should have trusted the process and had no doubt that I would reach my goal. But still I was surprised. And then my joy turned to worry, at the thought of possibly having to turn people away. I suppose concertgoers also need to learn not to book on the last minute, for intimate events.

There are two things I know for sure, after having arranged these 8 solo concerts: 

1. Capetonians tend to book on the last minute - usually from two days before the show.

2. I need to trust my instincts, because I do actually know what I'm doing.

On the second point, I've had people tell me that the area, Kuils River, in the Northern Suburbs of Cape Town, was too far. Which is ridiculous, because it's far only to people who don't live out that way. But to people who do, it's great - as indicated by the ticket sales.  I've also had people question my decision to hold the event during a long weekend, because "people go away". Again - some people do, but many don't. So there's a bit of stubbornness needed, when you do your own thing, because you actually are more in touch with the variables than people appreciate. I always find it interesting how people who've never put on events, let alone a concert series, see fit to advise one. Most of the time, the advice is not based on research, but on hearsay.

I've been blessed with two consecutive days in which to immerse myself in concert stuff - today was a public holiday, and tomorrow's a non-teaching day for me. I've had lots of lovely time to rehearse, as well as space to allow my head to be flooded with concert thoughts. Being both the event organiser and the artist is a lot. You have to wear two hats: the logistical, as well as the creative one. I'm learning all the time, and it's interesting to me to realise how much more I take into consideration now, compared to my first one, in September last year.

I think my main lesson has been to trust my judgement. I do still consult people I trust, and elicit their opinions and feedback, but I'm developing a strong sense of what works and what doesn't. The best  headspace for me to be in is one where both my certainty and my flexibility co-exist. I never want to stop learning. 

When I think of my main goals, with these Solo Sessions, I'm completely on track, and I'm having fun. I look forward to performing my own songs to new audiences. I feel proud that I stopped second-guessing myself, and took the plunge. I would love to  focus solely on the performance itself, and have a team that does everything else, but I'm not there yet. The advantage of making all the decisions is exactly that -  I have creative control of the project. It feels right, for me. Some things in life you just need to tackle on your own. My long history of deferring to others and suppressing my originality, so as not to rock the boat, is what brought me to this point. This was an inevitable next chapter for me.  

There are so many other things happening in my life, right now. Not one of them feels as satisfying and fulfilling as my concert series does.

I count myself lucky to be doing what I love so very much! 

Monday's another public holiday  - maybe I'll write again, and give you some concert feedback.   

           Solo Session 7, at Seven Sisters Vineyards, in Feb. 2023. Photo: Theresa Smith

     

  

      

A somewhat crazy start to the year

The fact that I'm posting my first blog post for the year on the 27th day of the third month is an indication of what the first quarter of this year's been like. 

The main factor in my life causing me distress - not to mention disruption of official matters, as well as severe embarrassment - is my employment status. I work in a part-time job that I enjoy and where I feel I make a difference, but which earns me a fraction of what I need to meet my monthly commitments. 

Anyone who's ever been in this situation - or worse, being completely unemployed - will know what I'm talking about. The rest of you can only imagine, and your imagination could never even begin to fathom the extent of the fall-out. 

Why am I in this situation at all? That's at least another two blog posts' worth!  

At the same time as major belt-tightening in our household, prices of everything - especially petrol, electricity and groceries - are constantly increasing, making it even harder to cope. We've adapted our lives to the reduced income, but I find myself missing things like a certain brand of shampoo, or shower gel, which we've stopped buying, in favour of bar soap. I used to have two food delivery Apps on my phone, but I deleted them both. I didn't even want to see them on my screen, when money became tight. 

And there are always other irritating, unforeseen extras that crop up, eating into the little that we have. Let's not even start on bank fees! 

So, no surprise, I've been feeling depressed. Most of the time, I know how to hide it, but it's something I have to fight my way through every day. To ameliorate it somewhat, I do the things that have always brought me joy. I journal and do Mind Power every day. I drink water. I listen to or play music. Most of the time, my Mind Power exercise is manifesting, which I have seen work, before, so I hang in there, manifesting what I want in my life: a job I enjoy which earns me a sustainable salary. At age 61, I have a limited number of years in which the formal sector will employ me, so this is also the time to be establishing income-generating things I could do beyond the age of 65.

My thoughts often turn to the senior citizens in our country who have no choice but to survive on a monthly state pension, which is about R2,000. What do you do with so little money? The more I think about it, the more I see the need for cooperative living, to share resources and avoid unnecessary spending. Someone gave this example, recently: if you have ten houses in a street, why does each household have to own a lawnmower? How often will each household need to mow their lawn? You may as well have some sort of group ownership of assets, and agree on a fair system of sharing. 

I spend a lot of time looking at job ads and putting the word out to my networks that I am looking for certain types of jobs, but it's taking long to yield results. Recently, someone made a disapproving sound when I said I would not return to work at a particular place that had made me unhappy. I thought about it afterwards: no-one would expect you to return to an abusive ex-partner - in fact they'd doubt your sanity - but there's a certain amount of judgement levelled at you if you say openly that you won't return to a place where you were treated in an unacceptable way. The thinking is: you're clearly not desperate enough. My thinking, in response? You've clearly not lived my life, so stop judging me.

This week, one of my jobhunting goals is to submit my CV and a cover letter to a few recruitment agencies. I'll see if that yields any results.

I had a conversation with someone about teaching English abroad, after a friend recommended I look into it. Very interesting, the different criteria for different countries. I had an epiphany, in the process - I realised how big a part my identity played in my decision making. For example, I would not survive in a country that openly oppressed women, even if I could earn a lot of money there. I am an outspoken feminist, and not being able to speak out against injustice would be impossible for me.  Also, I am a proud woman of colour. If I had to go to another country where my brown skin was going to open me to ridicule, that's not the place for me. I spent the first 33 years of my life as an unenfranchised, oppressed South African - I have no intention of inviting that into my life again.

I feel that I have the skills, knowledge and experience to make a huge contribution in my own country - I'm just struggling to find a place in which to do so. I have some thoughts, and I'm putting together some ideas. 

The strange thing - and I may have blogged about it before - is that, in the same time-frame that my  employment situation became so problematic, my creative (music) life kicked into gear. I started my solo concert series in early September 2022, just weeks after exiting one of my part-time jobs. Since then, I've done 7 concerts (including a mini one at someone's house), and I have venues booked for concerts at the end of April and early July. Anyone who knows me, knows that ALL I want to do is make music, but that's never been a viable full-time option for me.         

In every area of my life, I know this for sure: I am fiercely independent, and I like coming up with ideas and implementing them. I like tweaking an initial plan until it works optimally. People who lack insight call this being a control freak. It's not. Some of us are ideas people and natural leaders, and others are not. 

One of the reasons I'm enjoying my solo concert series is that I'm implementing MY ideas, in MY own way. The more I do this, the more I realise that when I run something, with full discretionary range, I thoroughly enjoy myself, and I generally succeed. I struggle in hierarchical set-ups, where the status quo survives as long as everyone behaves like clones, and where stupid decisions are made, because everyone lives in fear of the people at the top. I've worked in many jobs, and I know what I'm talking about. I have struggled with that kind of mindlessness throughout my adult life.   

I'd prefer to work autonomously, in charge of my own time, offering my professional services as an independent service provider or consultant. We'll see. Some days my confidence is so high, I feel I could take on absolutely anything, and on other days, I feel so exhausted from all the months of struggling, that all I want to do is stay in bed and hide from the world. 

In the meantime, I will do what I do best - keep on keeping on. I'm nowhere near to giving up.  

Yesterday, I went back to a form of exercise I love - dancing - and today I did another session. On my own, to a playlist of my choice, and just enjoying the emotional release that physical movement brings. I will practise as much self-care as I can, during this time, and continue doing so once my current crisis is over. 

When all's said and done, the only constant in my life is me.  

           Yesterday, I spent some time with my loved ones, next to this beautiful, natural pool.