I went to Starbucks the other day for a singing lesson. I wasnāt headed there intent on singing, but thatās what the Universe had in mind for me that day.
My original intention was to work on homework. Iām working towards an MBA, which has been a source of contention for me lately. I realized Iām pursuing this degree for the wrong reasons, mostly due to fear around expressing my creativity and offsetting that fear with faith in the practicality of business.
I needed to get out of the house for a bit; I was having trouble focusing on my homework, both because I think business is lame but also because my dog wanted me to throw a tennis ball every five seconds. Ā I arrived at Starbucks excited to see that my favorite seat was open despite it being busy. I ordered my coffee and settled in, focused and ready to work.
Then it happened. The man sitting right next to me starts singingā¦.out loud. I saw he had earbuds in, so initially I thought he was clueless to what was happening. But then he took his earbuds out and kept singing! I almost leaned over and asked him Excuse me, do you know your singing out loud? Like, loudly? I didnāt, though. Instead, I listened to my gut (a new thing for me) that suggested I keep quiet and sit in my discomfort. I puttered on with my work, now less focused than I was at home. Every now and then Iād have a giggle to myself when someone else looked at him with the same mix of contempt and curiosity.
I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable for him, but really, I was embarrassed and uncomfortable about something in myself that his singing brought to the surface. After an hour or so it hit me- he was a life lesson set down right beside me likely hundreds of times before, but I was only then ready to hear it. That one seat in the entire place was open for a reason.
As I was journaling just a few days prior, I stumbled across an old memory that offered some insight into my fears around creativity. Iāve always been deeply impacted by music and I love to sing and dance, but when I was a kid someone said to me Please stop singing which I took to mean You canāt sing. I still donāt sing publicly, only quietly in private like Iām afraid of my own voice. But when I do sing, even quietly, it lifts my spirit.
Looking back, I recognized the likelihood that this person just didnāt need a kid singing at the top of her lungs at that very moment (weāve already established it can be kind of annoying in some circumstances) and was implying nothing more. But the part of my ego hellbent on nurturing rationality and practicality over creativity latched onto this event fiercely and used it to feed my negative self-talk: You thought you could sing because youāre so grandiose. Youāre so egotistical. Nobody wants to hear that. You thought youād be good at that?! Donāt try that- youāll fail! Stick to the basic stuff. Etc., etc., etc. Itās this kind of talk that kept my creativity blocked off and bound up for so long.
So, just days before Iām writing about this memory, and then Iām plopped down next to this guy singing his heart out. Can you imagine if I had (passively) asked him to stop?! What might that have done to his creative spirit? What might stomping on someone elseās do to mine? It just reinforces the negative self-talk Iām trying to break.
I realized I was envious of his self-acceptance, self-confidence, and not giving a damn about what anyone else thinks. I decided in order to be like that, Iād really have to dig myself- imperfections, off-key singing, and everything else. I need to embrace eccentricities, because thatās what makes each of us unique. If I always try to fit in, whatās left of my originality? Fear of failure or judgment only blocks that original and unique part of me.
In our imperfections, we are all perfect. If I can accept everyoneās originality (including my own), it makes it that much easier to live with an open heart and mind; to love instead of judge.
Most of all, I need to sing and dance like no oneās watching.
I wasnāt ready to sing yet, but every time he started to sing a song I knew I hummed along, loud enough that he could hear me in it with him. And I didnāt really care if anyone else could hear me.
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