Weekly Voice Insights #104 – 104 Weeks Later: What Bears Repeating

This week marks two years of Weekly Voice Insights, and as I started looking back through the 103 articles that came before this one, I found myself thinking less about the number 104 and more about what has happened during the process of getting here.

When I began, I did have some imposter syndrome. I think some of that is healthy. It can make me check what I am saying, go back to a source, question an assumption, or make sure that what I am putting in front of someone is actually useful. I still have some of that now, and I am not sure I would want it to disappear completely.

But the question was never really whether I knew enough about voice. I have been fortunate to spend a lifetime learning about it through singing, teaching, conductors, other singers, extraordinary teachers such as Margaret Harshaw, the writings of Giovanni Battista Lamperti, and performers such as Frank Sinatra, whose understanding of words and phrasing continues to give me things to think about.

The harder question was what to do with all of that information.

n his book 46 Rules of Genius, Marty Neumeier writes, “You can learn anything, but you can’t learn everything.” I think there is something similar in teaching and writing. I may know a great deal about a subject, but I cannot put all of it into one article, one lesson, one rehearsal, or one conversation. At some point I have to decide what is most useful right now.

After 104 weeks, I think I am more comfortable making that choice.

Looking back at the articles with the most views has been interesting because the subjects are quite varied. Some are about the mental side of voice. Others are about hearing yourself objectively, breath, vowels, practice, trust, or the way we listen to another person. What connects many of them for me is that they take something fairly large and bring the attention down to something a person can actually notice.

I keep thinking about the familiar experiment in which people are asked to concentrate on one task so intently that they can miss the gorilla walking through the scene. Attention has a hierarchy. When I am using my voice, there are many things I could think about, and I cannot give all of them equal attention at the same time.

It is remarkably easy to open my mouth and make sound. I can start saying the words before I have really considered what I intend to do with them. Breathing is something I have done all my life, so it is equally easy to assume I do not have to think about it. Yet those are two things I would like to have available to me before the sound begins: What is my intention, and what is my breath doing?

None of this is especially complicated, but there are a lot of things happening when I use my voice, and I cannot think about all of them at the same time. Part of what practice does is make some of those processes familiar enough that I do not have to keep attending to them. Then I can give more attention to my intention and to how what I am saying is actually being heard.

This may be one of the reasons Epictetus has become increasingly useful in these articles and in my own practice. The quotation I put on the back of my Epictetus reflection journal says, “You cannot learn that which you think you already know.” I find that especially relevant to voice because so much of what we do feels familiar. We already know how to breathe. We already know how to speak.

Knowing something well does not mean I am finished with it. I may know a song from memory, but I still have to think about the phrase before I sing it so that it comes from a present thought rather than simply from recall. The same is true when I teach or speak about an idea I have explained many times before. The words may be familiar, but the communication still has to happen now.

For me, the answer has often been repetition. That word sometimes gets treated as though repetition automatically means mindless practice, when it can be exactly the opposite. Repetition is how I make something available when my attention is occupied elsewhere.

I see that in my morning Stoic routine. There are mornings when I am interested and ready to do it, and there are mornings when I think, really, again? After hearing so many variations on the importance of discipline over the years, I found my own way of expressing it: “Discipline prevails when motivation fails.” I do not have to feel particularly inspired for the practice to still have value. I repeat it because the repetition itself keeps certain ideas accessible.

If I repeatedly return to intention and breath in practice, I do not have to start analyzing several different technical ideas when I am actually using my voice. The work I have done beforehand helps me know, without having to think about it, what belongs near the top of the hierarchy.

Perhaps that is one of the things these 104 weeks have taught me.

Two years ago, the amount of information I had about voice could sometimes feel almost like the problem. Where do I begin? What belongs here? What will actually help somebody?

I feel that uncertainty considerably less now. The writing itself has been a form of repetition. I have returned to breath from different directions. I have looked at intention through performance, communication, Stoic philosophy, and the practical experiences that happen in ordinary life. I have gone back to ideas I thought I understood and discovered that there was still another way to look at them.

Maybe the useful part of imposter syndrome is the part that continues to ask, “Have I looked closely enough at this?” Experience gives me another question to put beside it: “What do I already know that can help me decide what deserves my attention now?”

After 104 Weekly Voice Insights, I do not feel the same pressure to come up with something earth-shattering every week. Sometimes an insight is something I have thought about before that becomes useful again because of what I am seeing, hearing, or working on now. Those ideas may bear repeating. In fact, repetition may be part of how they become useful in the first place.

#DevelopingYourAuthenticVoice #WeeklyVoiceInsights104 #TwoYearsOfVoice #IntentionalPractice #StoicWisdom

Weekly Voice Insights #103  The Moments in Between: What I Say and What I Do

The moment before...

As I prepare for another performance of the Foster 200 American Song Jukebox this weekend, I have been going back over the songs and thinking about what happens in the moments between phrases. I have performed this program a couple of times now, so the music and texts are becoming familiar, but I still have to approach the words as though the thought is occurring to me in the moment.

The musical score gives me some help with that because the pauses are already written into it. A rest tells me how much time passes before I sing again, but I still have to register what is happening during that time. I have to take in what I have just sung and allow the next thought to occur before I begin the next phrase. Otherwise, I am simply observing the correct number of beats before making sound again.

The musical score gives me some help because the pauses are already written into it, and of course I have to observe the correct number of beats. At the same time, I have to register what is happening during that pause and know why I begin to sing again when I do. Something has to be going on in the silence so that the next phrase sounds as though it comes from the thought that has continued through it, rather than simply from having reached the end of the rest.

That has made me think about the equivalent moment in speaking. In music, the length of the pause has already been decided for me. In conversation, there is no written rest telling me how long that moment should last; I have some control over how much time I take to register what I have heard before I respond. That brings me back to this week’s quotation from Epictetus:

“First learn the meaning of what you say, and then speak.”
— Discourses 2.23

The word that catches my attention is then. There is an interval between learning and speaking, just as there is an interval between one musical phrase and the next. What happens during that interval?

Original Greek 

• σιγή (sigē): silence, stillness
• λόγος (logos): speech, reasoned expression
• κρίσις (krisis): judgment, discernment
• μέτρον (metron): measure, moderation
• χρῆσις (chrēsis): use, practical application

Silence That Is Doing Something

Sigē gives me a way to think about what happens when I become quiet enough to listen. In that silence, even the act of breathing can help settle the activity of my own thoughts so that I can actually hear what someone else is saying. That pause can give me enough time to hear the other person before I begin deciding what to say.

Learning Before Speaking

Logos—speech or reasoned expression—brought me back to the first part of Epictetus's instruction: learn.

I notice this constantly in my own work. Before I speak about something, send an email, or write one of these articles, I look up names, ideas, facts, and context. Sometimes that takes a few seconds. Sometimes it requires considerably more time. What I know changes what I am able to say.

But knowledge by itself doesn't finish the process. Chrēsis, practical application or use, asks what I do with what I have learned. I can study a process or learn a musical text, but eventually I have to use that knowledge at the moment when it is useful.

Judgment Before the Word

Krisis has been a more difficult word for me because of the negative quality we often attach to “judgment.” Yet judgment can also mean discernment.

Before words come out of my mouth, I am making judgments: Is this accurate? Is this the word I mean? Have I understood what I am responding to? Do I know enough about this to say it?

Metron, measure or moderation, adds another part to that process. In speech, I have to decide how much time I need before responding. Sometimes that may be only a beat; at other times, I may need much longer before I am ready to speak.

Intention to Action

I recently published a reflection journal built around 52 quotations from Epictetus, one for each week of the year. Each week includes the quotation, some of the original Greek, and space to return to the material over seven days. When I use the journal myself, I usually begin with one of the Greek words and see what it brings up for me. I try not to overthink the process. I look at the word, consider what is happening in my life or work at that moment, and see where the connection is.

In that respect, the journal sometimes intersects with another practice I have had for quite a while, which is using a Panda Planner. The planner is organized in three-month sections, and I use it to record what I am planning to do on a particular day, along with the schedule and tasks that go with it. I also use the notes area to keep track of earlier planner pages that I have gone back to review.

There is a slightly serendipitous part to that review. I will sometimes ask ChatGPT to choose a random number for me, and I use that number to decide which page or day I am going to revisit. I may end up looking at a day from September, then one from March, then another from April, sometimes from entirely different three-month planners. Because I am not choosing the pages based on what I remember being there, I do not know in advance what I am going to find.

What has been interesting lately is seeing how often I have actually followed through on what I wrote down. I can look at something I planned months earlier and recognize that I did it, or that something I was working toward then has since happened. Seeing that across several different periods gives me some confidence that the intentions I record are not simply things I write down and forget.

That brought one of the questions in this week’s journal into a different focus for me: Do my actions match what I say I am going to do?

The Epictetus journal does not keep track of those things for me in the same way the Panda Planner does. It gives me a place to encounter an idea and see how it connects with what I am doing now. The planner gives me something I can return to later and compare with what actually happened. Somewhere between the two, I can see both the intention and what became of it.

Turn of the Breath

At the other end of all these longer intervals is a very small physical one: the moment when the inhale becomes the exhale. I’ve been thinking about that transition and about what I can do with it before whatever comes next begins.

That may be where Epictetus’s then becomes physical for me. “First learn the meaning of what you say, and then speak.” The then does not have a prescribed length. It might be the time needed to research something before writing about it, or only the brief turn of the breath before expression. What interests me is recognizing that moment and actually using it.

The quotation itself describes a sequence: first this, and then that. I recognize a similar sequence in the voice: first the intention, then the breath, then the tone, and then the connection. The time between each may be very small, but there is still something happening in those moments in between.

Inner Check-In

• When you are trying to understand something before you communicate it, what process do you use to find what is relevant?
• Where do you keep information you may return to? When the time comes, can you put your fingers on it?
• How does understanding your subject affect your confidence?

Weekly Voice Insights #102 — Who Are You Performing For?

Connecting with the audience during a live Foster 200: American Jukebox performance.

“Never assume a character inconsistent with your own, nor try to appear what you are not.”— Based on Epictetus, Discourses 1.29

Greek Vocabulary

• μίμησις (mimēsis): imitation
• φύσις (physis): natural condition, what you are by nature
• προσοχή (prosokhē): attention, careful awareness
• τόνος (tonos): tension, tone, vocal quality
• ἕξις (hexis): habitual use, acquired condition
• πρόσωπον (prosōpon): role, mask, or assumed character

As I prepare the Vicar of Bray for the third presentation of Foster 200: American Jukebox, I have been paying closer attention to what the character is doing through his own words. Each time the political situation changes, he finds a way to explain why his former convictions must change with it. His public position moves back and forth, while his underlying purpose remains steady: he intends to remain the Vicar of Bray.

The reversals make the song funny, and it would be easy to make the Vicar into a caricature. The more I work on the song, however, the more recognizable the impulse becomes. He changes what he presents according to what he believes the people in power are prepared to receive. He takes that adjustment to an extreme, although the calculation itself is familiar.

Knowing the audience is part of communicating. I may choose material, examples, language, or the amount of explanation according to the people in front of me. Those choices can help a listener enter the subject. The question is how much I change before my attention moves away from communicating the idea and toward arranging the version of myself I hope the audience will approve.

The Vicar is trying to preserve his position. In ordinary communication, the desired result may be employment, approval, appreciation, or reassurance that I have presented myself successfully. As those concerns become more prominent, the effort to connect with the listener can become increasingly self-involved.

I learned this most clearly in New York audition rooms. When someone responded very effusively—“Oh, that was fabulous! Marvelous!”—I almost never got the job. It happened often enough for me to notice the pattern.

I may still appear to be paying close attention to the audience while much of my attention is occupied with the response I hope to receive. The communication then becomes less about giving the listener a way into the subject and more about whether I will be liked, hired, invited back, or told that I have done well.

The Greek word prosōpon can mean a role, mask, or assumed character. In performing the Vicar, I am deliberately taking on a role. Within the song, the Vicar is also presenting one public character after another. His stated convictions change according to circumstance, while the purpose beneath them remains consistent.

I do not need to stand outside the character and display his hypocrisy. The contradictions are already present in the text. My work is to understand where he changes direction, which words reveal what he is doing, and how he continues to justify himself. Recognizing the impulse behind his behavior allows me to perform the character without reducing him to a series of comic effects.

Mimēsis, imitation, is often part of that preparation. I may listen to another singer and hear where the singer breathes, which words are brought forward, and how the interpretation moves through the song. As a listener, I have a more literal awareness of what I hear because I am outside the performance and can examine those choices.

During performance, I do not want to monitor myself. If I become occupied with listening to my own voice, my attention shifts away from what is happening in the moment and from the people I am addressing. I may also miss something occurring in the room that could affect how I communicate the next thought. Listening and examination belong largely to preparation.

Practice allows me to try what I have heard and discover whether it has meaning within my own interpretation. I may begin with another singer’s choice, although repetition gradually helps me discover where I need to breathe, which words carry the thought, and how the Vicar’s argument changes from one verse to the next. Knowing why I make a choice begins to individualize what I have borrowed.

This is where hexis, habitual use or acquired condition, becomes useful. Repetition allows choices to become familiar enough that I do not need to supervise each one while I perform. It can also preserve a choice after I have stopped considering why I make it. Prosokhē, careful awareness, keeps practice connected with what I continue to discover in the words.

Each time I return to the song, I may hear the argument differently. A word that seemed secondary may reveal the character’s calculation. A breath may interrupt the thought when the sentence needs to continue. An emphasis borrowed from another interpretation may no longer correspond with what I understand. Practice gives me the opportunity to make those decisions before I enter the performance.

The question of what feels natural is more complicated than it may first appear. Physis refers to one’s natural condition, or what one is by nature. It takes time to feel comfortable in one’s own skin and to recognize an inherent way of communicating. A habit may feel natural because it has been repeated for years. Something borrowed from another person may also become useful once I understand why it works for me.

What is natural for one person may appear excessive in another. The instruction for this week was to avoid overacting and be natural. Overacting can appear outside the theater through too much gratitude, over-the-top compliments, or what is now called love bombing. The amount of feeling being displayed exceeds what the person may actually feel, perhaps because the expression is intended to secure a response.

That effort may be heard in the voice. Careful attention helps me notice when my expression begins to serve the impression I hope to make.

Tonos can refer to tension, tone, or vocal quality. Tone communicates more than the literal meaning of the words. It can reveal whether I am engaged with the person in front of me or occupied with how I am being received. It can also reveal when enthusiasm has become a way of demonstrating enthusiasm rather than an expression of what I actually think.

The Vicar of Bray gives me an exaggerated example of what can happen when adaptation becomes a way of preserving approval and position. Preparing the song asks me to recognize that impulse in myself before judging it too easily in the character. It also reminds me that understanding an audience does not require presenting a different identity each time the audience changes.

Practice helps me understand what I have borrowed, what the character is doing, and what I can communicate through my own experience. Once those choices have been examined, I can stop listening to myself from the outside and remain involved in the actuality of the moment.

Inner Check-In

• When I borrow an interpretive choice from another performer, can I explain what I hear in it and why I continue to use it?
• When I adjust my presentation for an audience, am I serving the material—or am I serving my own desire for approval?

Weekly Voice Insights 101: What Story Am I Repeating?

            

“If any person does ill by you, immediately consider what it is they have done amiss; and you will forget your anger.”

—Epictetus  Based on Discourses 1.18

Greek Vocabulary

• θυμός (thymos): anger, emotional surge
• συγγνώμη (sygnōmē): allowance for error
• ἐξέτασις (exetasis): examination, close inspection
• προσοχή (prosochē): attention, careful awareness
• φαντασία (phantasia): appearance, impression

During a recent performance of American Jukebox: Foster 200, I lost part of the text in Stephen Foster’s Father Abraham. Since then, a line from the song has continued to run through my head.

At first, repeating the line helped me locate the mistake and consider what I could do the next time I perform the song. After that, it continued to return, bringing back some of the physical and emotional response I had connected to the mistake.

Thymos means anger or emotional surge. I know that surge. I work on recognizing it as it begins and remembering S-T-O-I-C: Stop, Take three breaths, Observe, Interpret, and Choose how to respond. Those steps give me time to notice my immediate reaction and determine what has actually happened before I go any further.

I notice this especially when I think I have made a mistake. Technology is a frequent example. Something does not work, and I react before I have figured out what happened. The frustration may begin with the device, but it often turns back on me.

Sygnōmē, means allowance for error. “Expect imperfection always” comes to mind. I understand that as a general principle. Applying it to the exact moment when I have made a mistake requires greater awareness and discipline.

Allowance for error does not remove responsibility. The mistake in Father Abraham happened. 

Exetasis ,examination or close inspection. I take this as an instruction to keep watch over my own behavior rather than immediately commentating on everything that has occurred. Close inspection asks what happened and what can be learned from it. Replaying the event indefinitely does not necessarily add anything to that examination.

Prosochē, attention or careful awareness, adds another part of the process. I have been considering the connection between intention and attention. Intention comes first, and attention follows. 

Sometimes an event is real, while the story growing around it exceeds what occurred. At other times, the underlying story may be based largely on phantasia, appearance or impression.

I recently encountered two people I had not seen for some time. I had assumed that they were not interested in interacting with me. When we spoke, both conversations were warm and personable. Neither person had actually done anything that justified the irritation I had attached to them.

Where did I get the story I had on them?

Looking again at the quotation, I notice that it begins with the word “if”: “If any person does ill by you.” Before examining what another person has done amiss, I may first need to ask whether anything was done to me at all. Was the perceived offense accurate, or had I created a story and repeated it until it began to feel established?

It can also be both. Someone may have acted imperfectly, and I may still be adding meanings or intentions that I cannot know. 

Looking closely at anger does not mean giving every surge an extended analysis. It means noticing what the body is reporting and examining what occurred. The surge may point toward something I need to learn. 

Inner Check-In

• What story am I fashioning each time I repeat this event to myself?
• What have I learned from this, and what no longer needs repeating?
• How does my voice change when I speak from an assumption I have not examined?

 Weekly Voice Insights #100 – Ready or Not...

"Discipline prevails when motivation fails"

The sanctuary pictured is Highview Christiania Lutheran Church in Farmington, Minnesota, 

where this Foster 200 recital was presented.

"If your efforts are uncertain, the results will be too."

— Epictetus, Discourses

Greek Glossary

• πνεῦμα (pneuma): breath, spirit
• προαίρεσις (prohairesis): deliberate choice, moral purpose
• βέβαιος (bebaios): steady, reliable, dependable
• ἡγεμονικόν (hēgemonikon): the governing faculty, the directing mind
• ἀσθενής (asthenēs): weak, lacking strength

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βέβαιος (Bebaios): Steady, Reliable, Dependable

The audience at the second Foster 200 recital could choose from seventeen songs, many with several verses. I never knew which title would come next, so every song had to be prepared. 

That kind of reliability isn't reserved for the stage. If I tell someone I'll call them back, I try to call them back. If I agree to do something, I do my best to follow through.

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πνεῦμα (Pneuma): Breath, Spirit

The Greeks used the word pneuma for both breath and spirit. English preserves much of that same connection. Respiration, spirit, inspiration, and expiration all come from the same family of words. Breath has never seemed like a purely physical act to me. Our thoughts, feelings, and intentions travel with it, becoming part of the words and music we share.

When I am tired, a steady breath restores my energy. As the breath energizes each vowel, the voice becomes freer, and the natural vibration allows the words to come alive for the listener.

Many students become concerned about following a predetermined breath plan. They're taught to breathe in particular places, and they work hard to learn those places.

Sometimes another breath serves the phrase better.

I think about it the same way I think about using a GPS. Even when I'm driving somewhere I know well, I often leave it on. I enjoy taking a different street now and then just to see where it leads. The GPS simply finds another route to the same destination.

Singing isn't very different. I practice where I intend to breathe, just as I learn the words and the music before a performance. I decide where I'll breathe, just as I decide how I'll shape a phrase or communicate a line of text. Preparation deserves to be specific because adapting isn't the opposite of preparation. It's one of the reasons we prepare so carefully.

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προαίρεσις (Prohairesis): Deliberate Choice

The audience chooses the song. I always enjoy hearing their choice because I genuinely love every song on the program. Most of my recitals include music I've performed before, with perhaps ten percent being something newer. This program is different. About seventy percent of these songs are new to me. That makes each audience choice a little adventure. I know every song, but I never know which one will come next.

Before we begin, I speak briefly about the song. That gives me a chance to think about what might add something to the audience's enjoyment or understanding of that particular song, even if it's one they already know. It also gives Linda a chance to find what we affectionately call our "blueprint." The printed score tells us the notes. The blueprint reminds us of the choices we made together in rehearsal—where we'll connect verses, where an interlude appears, or where we'll move directly into the chorus. Those decisions aren't written on the page. They're part of the performance we've prepared together.

One example came during Ah! The Voice of Bygone Days. I began the second half of the first verse with the words from the second verse instead. During Linda's interlude, I glanced at the lyrics on my iPad to see whether I could straighten it out before continuing. The interlude wasn't long enough, and trying to verify the words was beginning to take my attention away from the audience.

I could have continued with the second verse, and no one would have known the difference. Instead, when the opportunity came a few moments later, I sang the line from the first verse they hadn't yet heard. Those words express something different from the second verse. Stephen Foster chose them carefully, and hearing them completed the thought of the song.

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ἡγεμονικόν (Hēgemonikon): The Governing Faculty

The Stoics used the word hēgemonikon for the governing faculty, the part of us that directs our judgments and decisions.

Preparation doesn't make those decisions for me. Neither does the blueprint, the breath, or the audience's choice. They give me something to work with. I still have to decide what to do next.

Throughout the recital, every decision served the same purpose: to communicate Stephen Foster's words and music as honestly and effectively as I could. That purpose remained the same whether the performance unfolded exactly as planned or required me to adapt.

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ἀσθενής (Asthenēs): Weak, Lacking Strength

The Greeks used the word asthenēs to describe someone or something lacking strength.

Before the recital, I didn't have the energy I usually have. I had slept somewhere other than home, and I felt it. The recital was still at three o'clock. The audience was coming. Linda was ready. Waiting until I felt differently wasn't one of the choices available to me.

Is weakness simply feeling tired?

At the end of my Developing Your Authentic Voice Reflection Journal, after the fifty-second weekly reflection, I added one final sentence on a page by itself:

Discipline prevails when motivation fails.

This week gave me a chance to put that sentence into practice.

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Check-In

• How has careful preparation given me the freedom to adapt when something unexpected happened?
• What guided my decisions today?
• Where have I been waiting to feel differently instead of beginning with the energy I already have?

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A Personal Milestone

This week marks the 100th Weekly Voice Insight. Thank you for taking the time to read these reflections.

To mark the occasion, I'll be giving away a signed Developing Your Authentic Voice Reflection Journal when Blog #104 is published on Wednesday, August 12, the second anniversary of the series. New subscribers between now and then will be entered into the drawing, and I'll share more details over the next few weeks.

Weekly Voice Insights #99 — "Un bon moment"

Learning to receive, use, and return what was never ours to possess.

"Never say you lost something—only that you gave it back."

— Epictetus, Enchiridion 11

Greek Glossary

• ἀποδίδωμι (apodidōmi): to give back, to return
• ἔχω (echō): to have, to hold
• ἀφίημι (aphiēmi): to release, let go
• φύσις (physis): origin, source, nature
• εἰρήνη (eirēnē): peace, steadiness

What Do We Really Keep?

During the first Foster 200 recital, I momentarily forgot one line from the second verse of We Are Coming, Father Abraham. The recital continued, the audience remained engaged, and afterward I enjoyed conversations with people who had clearly been moved by the music. Even so, I found myself replaying that one forgotten line.

Epictetus offers another way of looking at these moments. Rather than speaking about loss, he speaks about return. Some things are ours only for a time. The question is how we use them while they have been entrusted to us and whether we are willing to give them back when their time has passed.

The forgotten lyric had already served its purpose. Continuing to replay it could not change the recital or the experience the audience carried home.

Breath Shows the Pattern

Breath quietly demonstrates the same rhythm every day. Each breath serves its purpose before making way for the next. Holding on to one breath never prevents the next from coming.

When teaching, I occasionally see students trying to hold on to a breath because they have learned they should not breathe in the middle of a sentence or musical phrase. Practicing efficient breath management is valuable. At the same time, the purpose of practice is to serve the moment in front of us. If another breath allows the thought to be communicated more honestly, then taking it is the better choice. The plan prepares us for the moment, but the moment itself still asks us to listen and adapt.

Perhaps breathing is one of the simplest reminders that some things fulfill their purpose by moving forward rather than by being held on to.

What We Receive

While visiting New Orleans, I spent time looking through an extraordinary collection of photographs, books, and memorabilia assembled over many years by someone with a deep admiration for Elizabeth Taylor. He never knew her personally, yet her films, interviews, photographs, and public life brought him years of enjoyment. What she left behind continued to enrich someone she would never meet.

Performances are much the same. We seldom know where our work will travel or whose life it may touch. Once the performance is over, it no longer belongs only to the performer. It becomes part of another person's memory and experience.

"A Good Moment"

Years ago, after singing Amonasro in Verdi's Aida with Radio France in Paris, people waited afterward to talk with the cast. One woman approached me and simply said,

« C'était un bon moment. »

At first I translated her words rather literally: It was a good moment. After living in France, I came to understand the compliment differently. She wasn't describing something that was "only a moment." She was recognizing the experience we had shared together.

After the Foster recital, I was replaying the forgotten line. The audience was experiencing the afternoon. They were carrying home the music, the conversations, the laughter, and the time we had shared together.

Check-In

• What am I trying to hold on to after its purpose has already been fulfilled?
• What have I received that has enriched my life and can now be shared with someone else?
• How might I use today's opportunities fully, appreciate them while they are mine, and give them back with gratitude?

Weekly Voice Insights #98 -What Did She See?

Borrowed Lessons, Earned Character

 "Don't be proud of any excellence that is not your own."

— Based on Epictetus, Discourses 1.29

Greek Glossary

• ἀρετή (aretē): excellence, virtue
• ἀλλότριον (allotrion): belonging to another, not your own
• οἰκεῖον (oikeion): one's own, proper to oneself
• πρόοδος (proodos): progress, advancement
• μίμησις (mimēsis): imitation
• ἕξις (hexis): habitual condition, acquired state
• τῦφος (typhos): conceit, vanity, inflated pride

What Did She See? (Aretē)

Near the end of my time at the Lyric Opera Center for American Artists in Chicago, I met with Ardis Krainik for my final exit interview. During our conversation she remarked that I had the volontà. I appreciated the compliment, although I also remember thinking in very practical terms. I had just completed the program, and what I really needed was a job.

Only years later did I begin wondering what she may have recognized. Her comment seemed to point beyond talent or musicianship toward qualities that had developed over time. That question fits naturally with this week's Stoic reading. Epictetus asks us to distinguish between what belongs to us and what belongs to something outside ourselves. Excellence is not something we borrow for a moment. It is revealed through the way we repeatedly choose to think, work, and respond.

Borrowed Beginnings (Mimēsis)

Every discipline begins with imitation.

Long before we develop our own ideas, we borrow from people who have already traveled the path ahead of us. We listen to teachers, observe colleagues, imitate performers, and follow exercises developed through years of experience. Voice study is no different. At first, we are learning another person's understanding so that we can gradually develop our own.

Preparing the Foster 200 recital reminded me of that process. Stephen Foster's melodies, poetry, and stories are not mine. I spent weeks reading the texts, memorizing verses, studying the historical background, and living with those songs until I understood them more completely. 

By the time I stood before the audience, I was no longer trying to remember lyrics from a page. The preparation had allowed me to communicate ideas that had become part of my own understanding.

Practice and Progress (Hexis and Proodos)

The recital confirmed something I have experienced many times as both a performer and a teacher. Repeated practice changes more than our level of skill. It gradually changes us.

Audience members selected songs in an order I could not predict. Between selections we laughed, talked about history, and explored the stories behind the music. At one point I momentarily lost a line of text and realized that I had left behind the iPad containing every lyric as my backup. I smiled, told the audience I was "surfing without a net," and kept going.

Driving home afterward, it occurred to me that the recital had depended far less on memorization than on weeks of disciplined preparation. The work of reading, repeating, studying, and thinking about those songs had made them available to me when I needed them. That is what the Stoics describe as hexis—an acquired condition that develops through consistent practice. Progress (proodos) is not measured only by what we know, but by what has become sufficiently familiar that we can draw upon it naturally.

The same process appears in teaching. At first we consciously remember every instruction we have been given. Over time those ideas become part of the way we think, listen, and respond.

What Becomes Our Own? (Oikeion and Allotrion)

After the recital, I was sitting at the table with my journals when a woman came over to speak with me. A friend had brought her from a retirement community. She told me how meaningful it had been simply to be in the presence of live singing. She spoke about feeling the vibrations of the human voice and described the experience as energizing. As a retired nurse, she reflected on how beneficial experiences like that could be for a person's well-being.

Our conversation reminded me that the purpose of preparation is never simply to accumulate knowledge or demonstrate skill. Everything I had practiced found its purpose in serving another person.

Stephen Foster's words will never become mine. He wrote them, and they remain his. My responsibility is different. Through careful preparation, I can know those words so well that they are no longer confined to the printed page. They become thoughts I am able to communicate with honesty and conviction, allowing the audience to experience them as living ideas rather than simply lyrics being recited.

What belongs to me is not the text itself, but the preparation, the understanding, and the choices I make in presenting it. What belongs to the audience is equally important. Each listener brings a lifetime of experiences, memories, and emotions to the performance, and each person is free to receive those words in a different way. My role is to present them as clearly and honestly as I can, leaving room for others to make their own connections.

Perhaps that is what Ardis Krainik recognized all those years ago. I cannot know exactly what she meant by volontà, but I can see that years of disciplined work have shaped not only how I sing, but how I prepare, teach, communicate, and respond to the opportunities placed before me.

We begin by borrowing from others. Through thoughtful practice, some of those borrowed ideas gradually become part of who we are. That is where aretē begins to emerge—not as something we claim, but as something we have patiently cultivated over time.

Check-In

• What qualities in my life have become part of who I am through repeated practice?
• What am I still borrowing from others, and how might I make it genuinely my own?
• What commitment could I practice consistently enough that, over time, it becomes part of my character?