Some time to finally see

Through the days of solitude and mindless distraction, quarantine has provided me a unique, albeit exhausting, opportunity to discover what being an artist means to me. And at that, as an artist, what it is I believe I have to say. Similar to many artists at some point on their artistic journey I’m guessing (hoping?), my inevitable “post YAP” bout of imposter syndrome has consumed many of my days in isolation.

I just finished four years as a member of an amazing young artist program. A program that found me as a childcare teacher and nanny, singing on my days off, and put me on a stage singing a duet with Renée Fleming within 3 months - truly, just the beginning of a long list of beautiful opportunities my time there afforded me. While these experiences were not lost on me, I admittedly spent a large portion of my time trying to catch up, fit in, and it bears repeating that at least from my initial perspective, I truly had no business being there.

All of this aside, I’ve spent a large portion of the past 9 months not yearning for the big, glamorous and exciting moments of life at Lyric Opera. Don’t get me wrong, I surely miss having a reason to get all dressed up (or dressed at all), the thrill of opening night, and the vibration of a live audience. But, as I sat and slowly watched each lost performance date pass by me, I realized the reason I felt at odds with myself was that my purpose was to be of service. Without my position at the Ryan Opera Center, I lacked those opportunities I once had to serve.

At the end of May, my wife and I moved back to Milwaukee, just a few blocks from where we lived prior to our move to Chicago. Our dream rental, a lovely neighborhood with lovely neighbors. A welcomed change from the roughly two months we had spent quarantining in rural Wisconsin (talk about isolation). Just days after moving in, we met a man who had become the main caregiver for his friend who lived across the street from us. He had come over to tell us he hoped the concert he was planning for his friend in the front yard in a few weeks wouldn’t bother us. We quickly assured him we were both musicians and would welcome the music anytime. A few weeks passed but there was never a concert. We did see some neighborhood kids drawing beautiful sidewalk murals outside his home and other houses putting up Christmas lights so he could see them from his window.

I was having a bad day. A “I never want to sing again” kind of bad day. A “whats the point anyways” kind of bad day. My wife was outside with our pup and I was upstairs near an open window. I heard her talking to someone so, I obviously eavesdropped. It was the man we had met a few weeks earlier and his friend didn’t have long. He asked if I could come over and sing to his friend from the bottom of his stairwell. And there it was. On a day I wanted nothing more than to set aside my identity as an artist, I was called to service. I sang Aaron Copland’s “At the River” a capella. A quiet “thank you” came down from upstairs and it was greater than any extended ovation could ever be.

A few days before Lyric canceled their season, I had the honor to sing at the memorial service of an incredible woman who was a visionary leader in the arts industry. On her prayer card was a quote I’ve mediated on countless times.

“I slept and dreamt that life was joy.
I awoke and saw that life was service.
I acted and behold, service was joy.”
-Rabindranath Tagore

This quote reminds me that as an artist, I must ask myself with every choice I make who I am serving. Even on my darkest days, knowing that my sole purpose is to serve others guides me.

So, what I mean to really say is, this unimaginable time of lack has lead me to realize a few things overwhelming opportunity never could. And I hope to spend the rest of my life serving anyone my voice can reach.

-Lauren