I was sitting in a cafe in Halifax. Cafe Cempoal, to be exact.  It is a cafe that feels like two living rooms of a house belonging to someone warm, eclectic and welcoming.   I felt comfortable immediately, and there was good music playing that made me dance around as I checked out the decor.   I wondered how my stuff would go over and how to best deliver it.   The audience was a meandering but listening type. I watched them order their coffees (respectfully quietly) as I sang, glad to see them not get the all too ubiquitous "to-go" cup. I saw their expression of curiosity as they walked into my sound, and the way they found a place to sit and take it in.   Each one gave off a lovely energy and spoke words of appreciation to me.   

In the end, it was the owner himself who took the time to sit the most with me, and we got to talking about songwriting.  He asked the kinds of questions I like, the kind that indicated he'd thought about this stuff before and the kind that indicated he had been listening, was connecting, or trying to connect.   I left feeling satisfied about the gentleness but meaningfulness of the exchange. A good musical experience, and a good afternoon in my books.

Later in the evening, I came across a youtube clip of a filmed radio interview I did in Holland a few years ago.  The show was called Music Magic, and took place in a town called Almere. I'd forgotten about it, watched a bit to jog my memory, and partway through, I realised I was talking about some of those same questions about my writing process that had come up in the cafe. 

I felt too awkward to send the owner a link to it, partly because it seemed egotistical, and partly because it's hard to hear what I'm saying and there's a lot of Dutch in between. I also look like an exhausted, mousy,  graduate student, and am speaking in my weird "I'm-in-Europe" accent, plus there's an hour or so of it, and only ten minutes pertained to our conversation.  It's also embarrassing to see just how much I talk once I get going. 

I decided to try to capture the relevant parts, and then figured why not share it with everyone who might be interested in my linguistics-philosophy-spirituality-of-creativity-nerdy-academic bent on the art of songwriting.  So here is the excerpt. I'll add the link too, if you want to sit through it, by all means:

INTERVIEWER:  Orit, I also read something I think it’s wonderful to read. “I am in love with words.” Can you explain that?  What is your love with words?

ME: First of all I’ve always loved languages.  I grew up speaking Hebrew and English, and, already, this is wonderful, having two languages from the start.  Knowing where the words come from and how they’re built… if you go to Germany and the word for “glove” is ‘hand-shoe”, this is fantastic, right? A shoe for your hand, of course it makes sense, and … if you learn the idioms from different languages, you learn about the people and the way they see the world, and this is such a beautiful way to get to know people.  So, already, I  have a fascination with language.
    As a writer, of course this is an obsession for me, because finding the right words for something, there’s knowledge that you have *before* you have the words for it.  It’s totally fascinating to me. That you know something but you have not yet found words for it is philosophically fascinating.   The process  that you have to go through in order to find the words, is actually the process of finding truth, right? You have to try different words until you feel that you’ve hit truth, and this is totally amazing to me.
    And the power that words have to move people to tears or to laughter, to make peace or make war, this is amazing, what power words have, so this is an obsession, for sure.
 
INTERVIEWER:   Ok, so the language itself, the words that you use in your lyrics, does poetry mean a lot to you? Do your lyrics, your texts have to be poetic or not at all, sometimes straight, down to earth?
 
ME:    I think to a large extent they are straight, down to earth, I’m not looking to be fancy at all, this is not my point. I don’t like poetry when it’s trying to be fancy, or when it’s trying to be unclear. I think *being* clear is the mission.   But... I’m trying to say as much as possible with as few words, because this is the point, I think, of writing a poem or a song.  We must make a million meanings with one simple phrase.
 
INTERVIEWER    and then contain it within a melody

ME :  Luckily for me, the melody comes together. 

INTERVIEWER:  So, as I understand it, the both come to you, the melody and the text.

ME:  Yes, usually.

INTERVIEWER:   and so, what drives you to write a song? Is it a feeling that you have, or maybe you’re sitting on top of a mountain looking to the far horizons, contemplating about life and the universe, or just love, or whatever?

ME:    The way I describe it is that I am somebody who is contemplating a lot by nature, so I’m always thinking words.  There are thoughts and thoughts and thoughts in my head.  And every so often, one phrase from all the other thoughts comes louder.  And when this happens, I go, “ah, this is a line.”  And when that happens, I noticed, usually I’m thinking about people, situations, fears, anxieties, loves, tragedies, joys, all of it, love is a big theme of course, also, and when I feel, "ah, this is a line,”  it’s because  “Oh, this is so *human*."  Of all my experiences, when something pops into my head as “ah, this is what being a human being is all about," that’s when I go to write it as a song, because it also means everyone else will know what I’m talking about, otherwise there’s no point.

INTERVIEWER:   I know what you mean, I can relate to this, because you can write a song about a lady across the street that doesn’t mean anything….

ME:    Well, you *can* if you do it in a way where you express exactly what you’re thinking and feeling in a way where people know they’ve felt it and thought it too.  You know what I mean? You can write a song about absolutely anything, but it’s what you do with it and why you’re writing it and what is the point of it that matters.  
 
INTERVIEWER:  So it has to have a point.

ME:    Yes, and this is what I was saying earlier when I was talking about looking for the truth.  I don’t know if I’m hearing you right when I hear you presenting your show, but you’re saying something like “the music is emotion,” Is that right?

INTERVIEWER: Yes, yes

ME:   And this is 100%  what it’s about for me. You have to ask, “what is the emotion?” and when you can find the honesty of emotion then you have a song.


****

   The link to the interview can be found here: 

​It was my idea to go stand there and have my photo taken.  I was going to post it as a half-joke to the folks who’ve kept insisting, despite the air of cliché it’s always struck me with, that I should do an album cover of me standing on, or by train tracks.  It was going to be a “here you go,” with a smirk.
My friend stood with the phone camera, waiting for me to get to the spot you see me standing on- a beautiful bridge over a creek.  There wasn’t any thought in my head whatsoever suggesting I shouldn’t do this, other than the slight pinch of ‘maybe it’s egotistical and vain to ask to have your photo taken.’
As my feet crossed the transition of tracks that were on a gravel path to the bridge itself, the spaces between the wooden railroad ties became open windows to the creek below.    The width between them was enough for a foot to fall through, but at worst, that would twist an ankle, bruise a shin.  These were logical thoughts in my head, as well as, “there’s no reason for you to slip through since you know you should place your feet on the wood, not in the space between the wood.”    What I’m trying to say is, there was nothing to be afraid of.
So when my heart started pounding and I felt dizzy and terrified and panic-stricken and regretful and frozen, I knew damn well that this was an unreasonable feeling.  The thought, “oh my God I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I CAN’T DO THIS” got louder in my brain and came out my mouth, as my friend explained to me what I already knew, which was, I couldn’t possibly fall through, it was physically impossible to do so.  
But seeing the running creek far below me made my head swim.  I knew it was ridiculous. I crawled to photo-position on my hands and knees which did nothing to help as it meant gazing directly at the depth of my imagined fall.   
What strikes me the most is that I don’t think it was even falling to the creek that I was imagining. I was dreading the jolt of fear I would have if my hand or foot slipped through, the split second of intense fear that it would induce in me before the thickness of the rest of me would prevent any more of my body from falling, was enough of a reason to be afraid.  I was essentially afraid of the intense sensation of fear, and upset at my irrationality.
I stood up long enough to have a few photos taken. I tried laughing it off and admitted I was being ridiculous.  I went carefully back to the metal edges, the “side-walks” of the bridge, and waited for my heart to stop pounding.  It took way longer than I thought it would.  Probably a few minutes but it wasn’t like being in safety immediately fixed it.  It was pounding in surprise and dismay at my own total lack of control.   It was pounding at its pounding.
Fear of heights is relatively new to me.  Something that’s reared its head in the past few years or so.   I’m still in a state within it where I’m willing to do things like climb a fire-tower ladder that climbs 120 feet in the air, or climb into my fireman-friend’s firetruck basket and get sent up in the air high above all the tallest buildings in a Berlin neighbourhood. I’m willing to do it for the experience, but I am terrified while it’s happening. I don’t enjoy it, I just feel proud for having done it.
“Courage isn’t not having fear. Courage is having fear but doing it anyway.”  I’ve been called courageous umpteen times over my touring years of hobo existence, and this has been said to me when I’ve replied, “But I’m scared all the time.”
What’s bugging me is that I have more fears than I used to. They say that’s normal with aging, and I’m definitely afraid of aging, but I hate that I’m afraid of becoming more afraid.  And I hate to think that becoming more afraid is going to make me cross fewer bridges.  I hope I’ll keep crossing them anyway, and I hope I’ll learn to calm down while I’m on them, rather than rush to get off.  Though they say that highly anxious people are more likely to survive disasters, so maybe I should listen to the ‘get off the bridge’ voice?  I’m not sure.  I’m afraid of indecision too.

​On the last night aboard the train, after a two-hour singing session with smiling participants young and old, Walter, the sweetheart in charge of the park car let us know the stars were visible from the dome car, and that he had turned off the lights there to make it even better.  He was done for the night but we were free to sit up there and stargaze. I took my St. Paddy’s day Bailey’s-on-ice with me and climbed the few steps up.
Vikas, whose voice took me a moment to recognise, the father of two who had sat and smiled and sang along in the earlier music session, was sitting in the darkness, one row ahead of me. He said hello as I got into my seat. He had been there for a while, and had a constellation app on a device which, when pointed at the sky, drew lines between the stars and identified planets.
We began a conversation that was first about why certain constellations could be one’s favourite (mine is Orion, and it is because my dad showed it to me when I was little, my go-to constellation).   We went quickly and obviously to the notion of being overwhelmed by the vastness of it all, agreed how tiny and insignificant we were, but, I added, even more remarkable is that, even so, we have immense and endless creative capacity.
The conversation ebbed and flowed between gentle points and gentle counterpoints.  Easily, without any forcefulness or pride, in gentle tones in the darkness, we compared life-notes, delighting in our mutual affinity for public transit, for travel, for less time watching television and more time engaging with the natural world around us, for learning, and as we did the moon rose up, yellow and hazy.
As the train moved, serpentine, through the rocky night-terrain of the Canadian Shield, from one minute to the next the moon went from being on our far left to our far right, and sometimes it sat right above the body of the train, and the winding metal roof, which we could see from our raised and windowed dome car, would glimmer in the moonlight.   I had never before realised what a winding path the train tracks took. It took the moon to reveal it.  
I told him I had written a poem once in which I noted that the moon knows me best, because as I travel from place to place, it is the only constant witness to my life. Why does it feel like if we look at the moon it is looking back, I asked, even though we know it is not sentient?  Maybe it is because we are made of the same stuff, stardust, he replied.  And maybe words cannot explain why we feel it cares about us the way we care about it.  Maybe some things are better without explanation.
We sat and continued these thoughts out loud, watching the trees in the darkness, enjoying the smooth sound and motion of the long train, talking of life choices, goals and randomness, of courage and change, and of humbleness. We knew the next day we would be arriving in Toronto, and life would go back to its hectic pace.
So for now, we sat and enjoyed the feeling of timelessness that only a night trip can provide, our train ride to the moon.  We knew we’d never get there, but the journey was spectacular.  #MyRoadLife

    ---    Last night, I was out at an event, which, like most events, involved some conversations with strangers.  That is nothing new for me, and since I had been performing, I was already a ‘somebody’   which removes the often awkward pressure of introducing myself to people.  When I’ve just been performing, people come to me with an obvious segue to conversation, and, as I’m buzzed on post performance adrenaline, I can chat with relative ease and confidence, and even come off as charming.
The event ended, and the hangers-on were going to a pub for some drinks. I joined.  I sat next to a man I had already been talking to for a while before we shifted locations.  The seated proximity allowed us to go between group chatter and face-to-face deepening conversation, further away from the sharing of anecdotes and jokes to more spiritual and philosophical matters.  We took turns between the two, with a natural kind of tempo.
I don’t remember what led to the remark, but he said, “I believe we choose our reactions.” He hit upon something I had specifically been thinking about all week, if not my whole life.
“Hmmmm. I’m not entirely sure about that.  There are a lot of things that happen to people that affect them beyond their choice to be affected,” I argued.
He seemed to understand what I was saying, but insisted upon his point, that ultimately, it was our choice.
“It sounds somewhat privileged to me,” I said, and I think he understood what I was saying a little better. But he still insisted that we have the power over our own reactions.
I think I agreed that we had power and choice over what I called our functional reactions, that is, what we do, but that we didn’t necessarily have a choice over our emotional reaction, or how we felt.  He still begged to differ.  I told him I didn’t agree, but that we didn’t have to agree on everything, and we moved on, enjoying the rest of our conversation – a friendly, interesting person I would gladly speak with again.
I fell asleep fairly easily that night, and perhaps the gin and tonic and a bit of earlier wine were of help.  But tonight, a night later, sleep wouldn’t come.  I’d had a good day, wrote an amusing song, saw my sister and nephews, ate well, had gone for a walk, and I spent the rest of my evening continuing to re-work old pieces of writing that happen to deal with some fairly traumatic personal events, a task I have been putting off for a long time even though I know I need to do it, a task I had finally started just two days ago, after a four-year hiatus.
And since, for the last few nights, I have also been engaged in the reading of a novel before sleeping, I thought I would turn to it, so I could take a step back from my own writing.   But the two somehow intertwined tonight.  Tonight of all nights the novel turned a very dark corner, and lines within it resonated a little too deeply, and I sensed the agitation spread throughout my body as I kept reading, which I did despite my discomfort, hoping for resolution which didn’t come.
Putting it away, turning off the night light, laying my head on the pillow, I tried to let my thoughts flow without controlling them, as is said to be beneficial, or wise, or both, and what rose within my mind was a string of memories of times I had felt afraid to the core, reaching back as far as to my five-year-old self, hearing the television news my parents watched in the evening.  My heart wasn’t pounding from the same fear, but from the knowledge that there had always been some around.
I was just that kind of kid, I guess. I’ve met other people who’ve confessed a nervous constitution, lying awake for nights, dreading the same violent or dire tragedy they had just seen in a movie or read about falling upon them.  I guess I’m just one of those people.   Aside from far too detailed war books, I remember books I’d been given to read about sexual abuse, god knows why they were given to me, with such graphic descriptions of depraved violence as to scar me for life.  Even as a reader of non horrific fiction I am altered, dazed for weeks after reading, walking with the character of the book inhabiting my skin and thoughts.  So imagine what scary and tragic books do to me. Imagine what real life does to me.  And growing up in a place and within a group, so to speak, where I knew I was without question a target of potential violence from a very young age was certainly significant to my said nervous constitution.
I let the thoughts flow, and after recognising the ubiquity of fear in me for as long as I can remember, my thoughts led me to times I had been held in a lover’s arms, and the grateful, albeit fleeting, sense of safety that such an embrace would grant me. 
But when you have enough romantic connections go bad, that doesn’t work so well either anymore to assuage your anxieties.   
And to go farther back to memories of the comfort of parents’ arms, the tragedy of how long ago it was, having learned they too are vulnerable, fallible, is too much to bare as far as comfort seeking goes.
To be perfectly clear, I am not always afraid.  “Courageous” is a word that gets thrown around a lot by people describing my life.  It’s that when I am, all of my fears rise up at once. And then I want comfort. And comfort is no longer comforting because everything that once comforted is itself broken.
And I just want to feel safe so badly.
It is so bloody basic.
I remember a sculpture I made at seventeen. When asked to explain it, I said it represented the inability of the protector to protect.
And just last week I went to my first ever counseling session. It was a little protocol-y, I went out of curiosity, I went because it was free, but also out of growing fatigue for my own symptoms of anxiety, my lowering physical tolerance for the chronic adrenaline heights.  I went because, though I assure you I am mostly fine, when I’m not fine, I am deeply distressed, shaky, and terrified.   Sure, we all are.  I put on a grin and do what I have to do. But my insides are flipping out as I do, and I want to go hide under a rock only I know I’d be scared there too.  I told the counselor that I thought it was more crazy to not have the reactions I have.  She stared at me a bit blankly.
But according to my new friend, we choose our reactions.
And I cannot help but feel like that is a comment judging my reactions as too dramatic, too messy, too needy, too immature. He wasn’t directing his opinion at me personally. He knows nothing of my personal story.  It was the personal implication of his stance. If I follow his logic, I should choose to be better-adjusted and happier, and it is ultimately my fault if I am having a negative reaction.  But I am not convinced. Because I have already chosen to try to be positive my whole life. I have chosen to turn my feelings toward productive creative work, I have chosen to be kind to people, to talk about peace-making, chosen to listen to the other side of arguments, even when that has meant suspending my terror to try to understand the actions and feelings of those who have instilled it in me. I have chosen to look at all human beings as vulnerable and worthy of love, despite their misguidedness of action and danger to me and others.
But even with all these vigilant, life-long choices, I am often a prisoner of my reactions. My efforts to choose positive reaction, to choose diplomacy, to seek some kind of evasive peace of mind, have perhaps also suffocated me.  And the truth of my actual, internal reactions has been burning in me, trying to come out, finding peculiar outlets, like muscle spasms, injuries, headaches, stomach aches, stray thoughts, text-book markers of post-traumatic stress disorder I am, frankly, very tired of, partly because of what they physically do to me, and partly because I feel like a failure for having them.
So I don’t know what to make of my friend’s claim.
Do I choose those reactions? It’s hard to believe that I do.
It’s hard to believe that having nightmares that leave you crying in the morning is a choice.  It’s hard not to find his utterance quaint and ignorant and seriously lacking in empathy, though I am certain that it is not how he intends it. I am fairly certain he means it motivationally, or self-convincingly.
I’m tired. Is that, too, a chosen reaction?
I am not blind, of course, to the partial truth in what he is saying. It is obvious. The notion exists for a reason. There exists in the human mind and spirit and body an incredible capacity to overcome, and to turn anger into peaceful productivity, self-improvement, benevolent action, social change. I commend and encourage it, and, god knows, I try it.
And of course, I can choose not to be annoyed at a lost item, or at a minor but irritating miscommunication, a stain on my favourite shirt. I often wonder why anyone lets themselves be as bothered by such trivialities as they are.  So on that level, I agree with my new friend. We can choose, on small scale things, to not be bothered and just go with the flow. I’d say with eight years of road under my belt, I even excel at that.
But don’t take away from me the truth that when my guard is down, when I have held on tight to my fortress of dignity all day, for days on end, that when someone spits in my face, when someone threatens my survival or implies its threat, that I am choosing to be offended or scared by it.
You’re damn fucking right I’m scared and offended.  And they? Have they not chosen to scare and offend me?
If it’s my own choice for feeling this way, if it is my own choice, this not ‘letting it go’, then yes. Fine. I’ll take full responsibility for it.  I choose to be outraged, I choose to be sickened, I choose to be full of grief, I choose to be lacking in grace as I process what has happened to me and what happens around me, and I choose to wallow in guilt about my own misgivings. And yes, how dare I not keep these reactions in better check and seek more personal “wellness” in between my productive, wonderful positivity?
But I am not asking for help in emotion management. I am not wishing these emotions away, so much as asking for the permission to speak about them.  I am pleading for attention to DO SOMETHING about all those horrific things out there that have me so bloody afraid, sad and angry.  Maybe the attention shouldn’t constantly be about how to feel okay about everything.  Everything is not ok.  Maybe some attention should be put toward gathering our fear and outrage and grief so we can collectively advocate and facilitate real social change.
Maybe he IS right.  I still don’t think I choose my miserable moments or sensitivities. I think perhaps people choose to numb themselves to theirs. And you may choose to agree, or write me off as foolish. I choose to go on feeling, either way.
 

​“Patience”, says the rock to the sea,
“Why?” begs the water,
“How?” Cry the waves,
“I rush in to tell you everything
And you stand stoic like a grave,
And stoic you stand as I leave you again,
With the salt of my feelings to crust on your skin,”
 
“I care,” says the rock to the sea.
“Then why won’t you hold me and ask me to stay?
I’m tired of tides pulling every which way,”
The rivulets seep, try to force rock to weep,
But the sea knows it won’t all too well,
And  swirls in frustration around in its swell,
 
But there are moon and starlit nights,
When the water surrenders most of its fight,
And the current grows soft and caresses
the weeds on the curves of the rock like soft tresses,
 
“I’m sorry,” the sea to the rock softly says,
“I know,” the rock murmurs, and forever stays.
 

I get to my gig, three streetcar reroutes and a sudden windchill later.    It’s empty save the chef and the lovely woman who booked me, a songbird herself, who’s working tonight. They weren’t kidding, it’s a really small place. I was tired all day and laying low, trying to save up some energy, and now, I choose chamomile citrus tea, chat a bit, and then some folks come in, so I plug myself in. Both tables are chatting amongst themselves. There is no indication of acknowledgment that there is a musician all strapped in and about to start. That’s ok. There are places like this, or at least nights like this, and they’re fine too. Certain gigs, you just don’t know what kind of night it’s going to be until you’re there. None of these people know me, so they have no reason to think it’s going to be good or bad.
There is 'good' background music, and 'shitty' background music, and talkers, despite their talking, are no fools in this regard. You gotta DJ the situation, and you gotta sound good in the room. It’s why I never have a set list anymore and why I have tried to have at least some variety in what I’ve written, the fingerpicking style songs don’t go with busy bars, and the loud-belted blues are not a good way to start in a quiet cafe. It’s not me who decides the tone of the night, it’s the room. You can call the audience to attention if you want to, but it’s not the only way in, and it’s certainly not always the best way in. When folks are talking before I start and nobody is facing me, depending on my mood and energy, I often just start playing, light at first.
I let a few songs go before saying anything. I wait for a smile or a nod or a head to move to the music, a foot to tap to the rhythm. Like pets and toddlers, I find talking audiences best to let come to you. Sometimes people are just out to catch up with their friends, and they can talk and enjoy the music at the same time, and if it’s that kind of place, it’s cool. That’s what the tapping feet are for. They let you know you’re still connecting.
I’m keeping my glance down or above and around. It's hard to know where to look when you want to be both good and small at the same time. You don’t mean to be coy, and nor do they, but there is a certain furtive glance thing going on between you and the audience, and that’s better than no glances, believe me. The glances are part of the connecting.
Tonight, and lately, I’m moving around uncomfortably while I’m singing, because I’m achy and the positions I have to be in to hold both the guitar and myself up in this chair, and sing right into the mic, are not the positions my body wants to be in, but I don’t want to stand either, let alone for an extended time. But it’s ok. I’ve learned a certain wiggle so that the pain wiggles too, never in one place too long. And it’s not serious or anything, you know, it’s just there on some nights, and distracting sometimes.
I can sing whatever I want. This is a good thing about ‘background gigs’ where I do no banter at first. I’m keeping it light for them, but also for my throat muscles.
Another couple walks in, I recognize the man, and I’m glad he’s come to the show. It's good and important to make connections with new pairs of ears, but it perks up the spirit immeasurably, the heart lights up when a friend walks in. It also makes me try a little harder. (though sometimes it sends a jolt of nervousness through me, like, “shit, now you have to be good.”) It’s a small enough place to be able to hear his praise, which is both lucky and awkward.
Turns out, at the break, that he’s a massage therapist, which is more lucky at this point, than awkward. “You were smiling the whole time through,” he says about the set I’ve just played, and I laugh that I was wincing, genuinely surprised I had appeared to be smiling. This utterance changes everything from a strained event to a much more relaxed one. If I appeared to be smiling, I must have been. My own perception must have been imperceptible. This is good news. He gives me a five minute massage, and the fact of the gesture is as gratitude inducing as the actual massage. A trade agreement is made, CD’s for massage appoitment. I am so pleased.
Set two, I’ve been fed, it was delicious and I was hungry, I’ve been massaged, and have regained some energy. I start with a ballad, because “I love your ballads,” was said at the break. I invite the whole room to sing ‘Happy Birthday” to the birthday group that is now leaving, and I give a hearty, “thanks guys,” as they go. I’m not sure if there was actually a door chime, but that’s how I remember them leaving.
Another couple comes in and sits, the songs continue to flow. This couple looks up more, have turned their chairs and bodies to face me, paying attention to the songs. Cool, I can talk now. I tell them about the next song, and by doing so, more about myself. They smile their engagement, and I sing it to them. I tell them more. The facial expressions are all good ones.
Time for three more songs, the kitchen’s closing, we’ll shut’er down soon, but three more songs. More smiles.
Two more songs. I sift through my brain trying to pick ones they might like, and I don’t mean covers, I just mean, songs of mine that might have words that will speak to them, but I don’t know them, so I’m just guessing. I bring them in by telling them about it.
One more song, and right before it, another couple appears at the door, I recognize them, friends. They’ve come to see the show, made it in time for one last song. The sign already says ‘closed’ but we let them in, of course, and they order cake and coffee, and I sing my last song, but then, they have only just begun their cake, so I can sing another two or so, and they request one. I tell its story and I sing it. And then one more.
And then I unplug, sit down with them, and there is conversation, smiles, names exchanged. They ask me about my unusual life. I have more energy now to talk about it than I did, before, to think about it. Well past closing time, we filter out, I get a ride to where I’m staying, even though it’s walking distance, the temperature’s dropped and it’s a good way to add on five more minutes of conversation. I get out and thank them. Getting a ride is high up there on the list of “reasons tonight went well.”
I plunk down on the couch of friends who’ve already gone to bed. Made enough dough til the next gig, which is tomorrow anyway, I’m still achy but with a massage appointment, I’m well-fed, made new connections, and old connections, was called ‘a really great artist’ and probably most importantly, I’ve made people smile. I ‘worked out’ my singing pipes and playing muscles, keeping them tuned up. What else would I have done with my evening?
My host pops out to say hi, and we chat a bit, and I can stay in the living room or retreat to “my” room, also a massive luxury.
“I want to see you at Massy Hall”, one of the ladies in the audience had said. “Well, I have no idea how to make that happen,” I said to myself in my head, as I always do upon such a remark. But if she pictured me there, I must have done alright anyway.
This wee place that was tonight’s gig was a “small scale” night for sure, but only by industry standards, by career milestone standards, or even when compared to larger scale nights of my own. It’s these kind of hangups that make me feel unaccomplished, embarassed. But then, this is a perfectly great Saturday night. Wishing it was Massy Hall is a bit like wishing I was skinny, blonde, wrinkle and worry free. It’s numbers. Sure it would be nice. But each pair of ears is like a starfish in that star fish story. Yes, sometimes I need to remind myself of all of this, and so here it is, my reminder. This is nothing to be ashamed of. This is nothing to be ashamed of. The evening took a bit of mustering and gave its own rewards. I was prepared for it with a hundred songs, relatively agile fingers and a singing voice, that even at 50% is good enough to get a “Massy Hall” comment. I love hearing things like, “I saw Townes Van Zandt play and there were only 6 people in the audience.” Making and sharing music is what I’ve come here for, come what may.
Sometimes a night opens itself slowly, like a reluctant flower. There was not only nothing wrong with tonight. Tonight was beautiful. Another gig tomorrow, what will it bring?

“A few years ago, I would not have wanted to talk to you,” he said, with a sincere smile. 

We were seated aboard “the Canadian” train, Vancouver to Toronto, where, during meals, the passengers are seated four to a table, according to the whims of the dining car crew.  And so it happened that I was  seated across from Izzy, short for Izzat . To my left sat a silent, shy, but beautiful woman, and across from her, presumably her husband. “She doesn’t speak English,” the husband explained with a sweet expression, and when the waitress had passed, Izzat translated the menu options into Arabic for them.

“That’s convenient,” I said, in a friendly tone, “that you speak Arabic and can help them.”

“Yeah, I’m from the middle east.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Oh?”
 
“But not from the Arabic speaking part,” I braved. It would come up eventually; I might as well get it out right away.

“Oh?”

“Israel. You?”

He chuckled. “Palestine.”

“I’m sorry,” I said with a sheepish grin.

“Me too.”

We high fived, and laughed.

That’s when he said it.  “A few years ago, I would not have wanted to talk to you.”

And so the conversation began, though he had watched me sing and play a set a few hours before, we had only spoken a few sentences to each other when trying to come up with children’s songs to accommodate the two Caribbean cuties whom I let “play” my guitar and sing.  He had suggested, with great success, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.  There is nothing like the cuteness of children to establish universal humanness. It was a lucky preamble.

And now, at dinner, we delved right in, over his lamb, my duck, while the couple beside us, (who were from Iraq as it turned out), ate their salmon.   I offered the little bit of Arabic I know. “Ahalan, kif halek… shukran.. aywa, “ (the last one he explained to me was Palestinian and Egyptian dialect, that Iraqis don’t say that.).   “Shu –hada” I threw in for good measure, completing my limited Arabic vocabulary, though I remembered a bit more later, like “Habibi” and “Mastul.”
“Yeah, a few years back I would not have wanted to speak to you, but when I moved to Canada, (he grew up Palestinian in Saudi Arabia, where being Palestinian is also not easy,) I got some space away from what they taught me.  I met more people. I even have an Israeli friend. We meet for coffee and talk sometimes. We don’t always agree, but we talk.”

 He told me the hatred was unilateral where he grew up, embedded in the common parlance. He said sometimes they don’t differentiate between Jews and Israelis.  He said, “Yeah, all Arabs in the world hate them.”  He said, “them” not “you,” though I am them.  “The word ‘Jews’ is an insult,” he went on.  “For example, if somebody interrupts your meal we say, ‘Only Jews interrupt.’”
 He paused, and then added, “Sorry, I am just being honest.”

 I smiled though the words hurt me, but rather than cutting me, they pointed at a wound that was already there. There was nothing new in what he was telling me.  I’m well aware of the pervasive anti-Jewish sentiment in the Arab world and beyond.  I had been “explained’ the same thing by a Belgian woman who told me very matter-of-factly that the word “Jew” is an insult.

“It’s not like I didn’t know that that is the sentiment,” I said. “I’d much rather have an honest conversation than not talk at all.”   Being hated is something that Jews and Palestinians have in common.

But he told me that he had moved on from those sentiments, and was against the violence, that he had ‘unfriended’ many Arabs and Israelis because of the viciousness of their views.

“Their life is so bad they just don’t care anymore,” he explained of the Palestinians living in Gaza.  I knew that too, I told him.  I shook my head in agreed upon disgust at their situation.  We talked about what growing up on hate can do.

I told him the hardest thing for me was to know this and to feel sorry for people I am still legitimately afraid of, to feel sorry for people who systematically hate me, and who would celebrate my violent death.  He talked of the awfulness of certain Israelis who don’t seem troubled by the death of thousands mere miles away from them.  We continued to shake our heads in disbelief and yet smile at the fact of our conversation.

We both agreed things had to change, and that violence was part of the hellish cycle, and it was better and necessary to seek any other way.  And so we would talk to each other, because it has to start with individuals.  

We talked politics, childhoods, and a lot about food.  Describing his aunt’s kibbe, he lit up with endearing enthusiasm.  “Sorry, I like talking about food,” he said in not that different a tone of apology that the one for his previous comments.

 “I don’t mind. I love talking about food too,” I laughed. We talked about five year olds, (which his girlfriend has), computer programming (which he does), teaching, dating, beer, music.   We talked about the good things in Canada.

“At least people keep their hate to themselves here.”

“I still wish they wouldn’t have it.” I frowned.

“Yes, but at least people here are civil.” 

Indeed, that is no small thing.

It was easy enough to talk together, and this should in no way have been a big deal.   Meals on the train force conversations between strangers every time.  People you don’t know you will like reveal, through their personal stories, their very human selves.  Themes we all relate to emerge every time.  And so it was, with Izzat and me, two regular people:  A Palestinian and an Israeli aboard “The Canadian”. 

​People - Plain old people.  If we could peek our heads out of our learned prejudices long enough to get to know each other as people, which he has done, and which I am impressed by and grateful for, then maybe we will remember that the ‘others’ that ‘they’ talk about are also people.  It starts with one human encounter and willingness for dialogue.  Talking with Izzat is a sign of hope and certainly a reason to celebrate the diversity and relative tolerance of Canada.  May there be many more encounters like this, like bright lights in the darkness.   One more reason I am grateful for this journey.

 ​I didn’t know who to confide in, so I decided to confide in everybody. And this isn’t to elicit pity. Nothing is wrong. It’s just to give a picture of ‘between the highs,’ a glummy day in the life of a troubadette.
I woke up, late morning, last night’s show was one of those amazing ‘the whole room was one’ shows. I have nothing to complain about, knowing I am blessed to have achieved this, except that today was really fucking hard.
Before I dared move my body this morning, before I even opened my eyes, I checked myself to see if I knew where I was. Upon waking, I still had the imprint of my room in Jerusalem, where I’d just been for a couple of weeks, at my parents’ place.  I’m in a different city now, Berlin, yes, Berlin now, not Jerusalem. But I can still smell the Jerusalem room smell, clean, but with fine desert dust that settles no matter how much you clean.  I can still feel the incredible amount of light that enters the room there, the energy of my mother passing in the hallway, beyond the door. But she is miles away now as is my father, whose shoulder I literally cried into last week when the details of the violence of the day got to me.
I’m in Berlin now, not Jerusalem, but I am still flinching, and then I am flinching from my flinching. I feel crazy, but know I am not.  No matter. I am ok enough to know what’s what, a side-effect of intensely harsh reality and par for the course of my life. I know I’m ok. I feel weird in the transition, that’s all. It will pass, and then maybe it will feel worse, because I won’t know why I feel the way I do.
I did not really remember my dream this morning. Some days I do and it lingers for the first few hours, but today I woke up with where last night ended off, which was a little raw for other reasons.  It was after my show, a conversation with an unfairly handsome man about my fragility (his word, not mine, a word I doubt a woman would have used about me last night). I remembered agreeing to this fact of my being, fragile, I remember liking his intense observations of me and his specific responses to my songs. Whose ego wouldn’t like that attentiveness of gaze? He graciously walked me home under his umbrella, further discussing my fragility. I felt understood, and grateful for it. Finally, someone who doesn't think, "oh what an easy breezy life you lead."  I felt sorry to cut the conversation short by arriving at the building where I'm staying, sorry to not be able to offer shelter from the rain, as it was not, after all, my shelter to offer.  And then I remembered that when I was falling asleep after seeing him walk on to his home in the night’s rain, after coming up the stairs and going to bed with my clothes still on, too tired to change, that for a moment I was angry and hurt that he should have had the gall to call me, ME, fragile. I wondered how much my fragility has to do with learned timidity, with fear of acting out my full being in conversation, in public, without a melodic mask.  I wondered if my only options are fragility or brazen angry madness.  I wondered if it was a man thing. A woman thing.  He meant no menace in his words, I know, and yet it felt a touch patronizing, if not vaguely predatorial. I assume he meant neither but genuinely just liked the show and the conversation and was curious about me, asking a good interviewer’s questions. Still I went to bed feeling angry and uncomfortable with my own ego, with the fact that I was so observable as a performer, and so observed before and after the show, at the bar. If I’m a thing of curiosity, sure, it makes sense. I have made myself a public figure. I wear and share my heart on my sleeve.  So, yeah, go on, draw incomplete conclusions, share them with me or don’t. If I pretend I don’t care, I’m dishonest. If I care too much it’s a flaw. I wondered how many more years of meeting handsome men at bars who like me for my fragility and for my brazenness and then walk home to their girl-friends and wives and children and safety and security and stability I will encounter.  I wondered how many people know how much loneliness comes with this ‘freedom’ of mine.  Sure, I've had my opportunities for domesticity. I ran from them all. Mostly because I had to. I wondered how much of our well-being depended on our chosen and fickle narrative of ourselves.
I stewed on this awhile this morning, still in the position I woke in. Before I dared turn my body I made sure my spine could handle the motion. I squeezed in my stomach muscles, and gently drew my knees towards me, and only then turned slowly. If this happens without ache, it is a good sign. If there is ache, it means at least a half an hour of mandatory stretching lest my back seize up on me later.  This morning my back didn’t ache. A bonus.
 Nowadays, it isn’t only the spine I have to check before rising. I put my injured feet down tentatively. There are stretches I should do before I even put them down, but I am lazy. Too many different strethes to keep track of. I reached for the bandages that compress and support my arches. I had to pee. I was groggy and desperate for coffee but remembered that I should swish the coconut oil I bought yesterday for those  10-20 minutes because I believe it helps even if it maybe doesn’t, and I can use all the placebo effect I can get.  Two days ago I had an alarmingly nagging toothache, but only for a couple of hours.  It’s better now, gone except for the memory of it. I read toothache can be hormonal.  Maybe it was psychosomatic. I have no idea. Prevention is everything.  I put a tablespoon of it in my mouth. Swish. I suddenly remembered how my jaw popped last night during the show while I was singing, and how I had to open my mouth less afterward, move it more carefully.  One of these days I fear the springs that hold me together will pop right out of my body and there will be a crumpled hinge-less me on the floor. Oh, I know, people suffer and have suffered far worse. It is a matter of observation of changes, more than it is a complaint, but it is also fear of more pain later, of decreasing ability to perform my tasks. Of the general depressive mood that pain causes, and vice versa.  It is a not too keen dialogue with my body about aging.
I walked to the bathroom, my left arch twinged hard, even with the bandage, I grimaced and groaned. Plantar fucking fasciitis. What next, body? 
Coffee.  I made it while the coconut oil was swishing in my mouth.  The mirror I passed on the way and looked into reminded me I have a bunch of new grey hairs at the side of my head. I care and I don’t care.  Ok, I care. But I’m not going to dye it. It is what it is.  But how can I be old enough for  grey hair AND still have pimples? That really gets me.  I checked my waistline while I was at it. I don’t want to care, but I do.  I don’t know if I hate my waistline more than I hate myself for hating it.  The latter, I think. I reminded myself of the meme that said something like “we don’t owe beauty to anyone.” Good.  I’ll be ugly today. Doesn’t matter, I figured. I don't care, but I do.
  The coffee could have been better, but it was with rice milk. Soy milk was no longer doing it for me. Almond milk is a whole euro more over here. I had to stop with the real milk because it was puffing me up and I looked pregnant.  The last thing you want is to look pregnant when you’re not, especially when you’re in your now late thirties, and the fact that you’ve never been pregnant and most likely never will be is a ‘thing’ you don’t want to be reminded of by looking pregnant. Too freaky.  The coffee is certainly tastier with real milk but I’d rather not be bloated. Hell, a half a pack of smokes would be tasty today too, but you’ve got to make choices.  Trying to be healthy is a drag. I tmakes one feel fragile.
I wasn’t hungry for breakfast, but I looked to see what was around. My gluten free bread was almost run out but there were a couple of slices left and I planned on some toast once I was hungry. There were eggs and some greens I could add to them. No cheese of course. Puffy puffy. Whatever.  As much nutrition as I can get for as little money as possible, is my general motto. But here I have access to friends’ fridge and food. That’s crazy generous. I try to nibble at things without greed.   But I’m also trying to figure out what bugs my stomach.  So I try as much of an in-tune-ness as I can muster regarding what my body is craving for nourishment. It is of course, mostly craving a lengthy cuddle.  Yes, that is part euphamism. Yoga and a hot shower will have to do instead. Lengthy cuddles come with complications.
I sat down, stared at the laptop, thought of what to post today, looked at messages, responded to messages, worked on winter show-bookings, read a bunch of posts as my eyes started to focus and the caffeine started to work itself into my bloodstream.
I was so tired.  Two shows back to back where I gave it my all and two more to go this week. Two great rooms where the audience hung on every word, where I told my stories between the songs, and they listened and laughed at all the right moments, where I could see and feel them connecting. This is my magic. This is what I live for. This. I have become very good at this. It is not a surprise when people like it anymore. It is not even a vindication (anymore). It just is.  I’ve earned these skills. This is what I do. This is no longer a question. But it is. I like it while it is happening. I don’t like the before and after.
I saw my reflection in the laptop screen, caught myself daydreaming instead of working. Again those grey hairs, and, och, the saggy skin. I’ve earned these skills and these grey hairs and this skin. I am not at the beginning, up-and-coming part of this career.  Career. I hate that word. Career would imply viable income.  I’m not at the end of it either, though I feel somewhat of a tired veteran. A young gorgeous Italian woman came up to me yesterday at the show. She wants to do it too. She sings and plays guitar.  I was the wise mother hen there, with the advice to dispense, not the young woman.  And it was all "go for it," not, "oh my God, don't do it." It’s alright. I’m not that old, but it sure is changing. I don’t care, but I do. I am helpless in this regard anyway.
A few more sips of coffee, I sent my sister a facebook note saying I’m sorry I left her in the middle of a war. That it is not with a full heart I go forward and do my shows. It is not with flippant disregard to what’s happening there (though I know she knows that).  She wrote back, and we agreed that the saddest part of it is how the personal fear is bringing about more racism. She said she wasn't in the least mad at me for not being there.   I don’t know who to talk to about this.  When the adrenaline from the shows settles, when there is a lull in the conversations with my audiences, when I am once again alone, and even when not,  it is Jerusalem my mind jumps to and I tense up, my breath shortens, what am I doing here?  What could I possibly be doing there? What am I doing anywhere?? Och.
Fragile, he said.  Maybe just sensitive. Maybe just raw from over-exposure of myself to others, the relative one-sidedness of it . But it’s your choice, Orit, you chose to do this.  Yeah, but did I?   He even asked why I wasn’t married, why no children, not in the judgmental conservative way some people ask, but more to imply that perhaps I never wanted those things, even though I am plainly not the type to flat out not want those things (he said, and I agreed).  It had been too much to answer adequately under an umbrella in the night rain. Maybe that's why I'd gone to bed angry.
I sat there, this morning after, still in my pyjamas and robe, still on the coffee and laptop, and put on the  last mixes of my new album, needing to finalise them.  It too is fragile. Extremely. The most fragile thing I have ever recorded. Not timid, just fragile, beautiful, and a little bit ugly. No pretention. It’s soothingly melancholy, but today, listening to it, I was depressed by it, because what the hell am I doing? I mean, really, what the HELL am I doing? How surreal is it, writing songs, recording them, performing them, sharing them, letting seven, eight years go by with no other task getting more of my focus. What is it all about?
Maybe I just needed more coffee. I made more coffee.
He’d said I transformed on stage, from the fragile one he was talking to before the show, into .. something else. He'd said that it was a surprise. I know about this transformation.  I feel so much safer on stage than off it, once the nerves dissipate and I’m into the song. I know what to do then. And music comes out of my body and I can make it and hear it at the same time, and everyone watches as I finally let go.    I am truth and I am sometimes, beauty and I am sometimes ugliness, but I am truth, or at least the intention of truth. I don’t mean it arrogantly, I just mean, I know I’m not bullshitting when I’m up there, and every other moment of my social life, I am not too sure about that. I try to be honest but my self-consciousness makes me talk inadequately and if I'm not shy it is a confident seeming banter that I'm not sure is me.  I watch myself from above in conversation. I watch myself from within in song.  Singing is the only way I can crawl out of this confusion.  I sing my heart out,  with sore jaw, sore feet, sometimes sore back, my hair over my face sometimes and I am certain I look a bit like some freak, but I don’t care. But I do.  There is a touch of defiance there and still a touch of timidity.  There is defiance in some of the songs. But who am I defying? Probably only myself. I don't care, but I do.
In the shower, hot, soothing, I thought about this more.  It feels like there is a giant hand pulling me, a force greater than my will that makes me book more shows, and keep this train going. How would I stop it anyway? Why would I? I’m writing these songs, I’m playing them, I’m surviving, am I not? Is this not viable?
 Is it ....... an addiction?
 Is it an addiction if it gives other people comfort, beauty, thoughtfulness, as people claim it does? There is some sacrifice to it, but if it is so, then unlike other addictions, it is truly for others as well as for oneself. What else can I do? I can't stop it now.
I dried myself off.
Yoga. I needed a break from the computer. 
Then my friends came home and I was glad to turn my thoughts off to make room for their conversation, to ask them about their day.
By night time I had played another show.  Number three. Great sound, cathartic performance, messier hair, louder, and I was seated for the first set, because my feet hurt and I was jittery.  It's ok. I've learned how to look cool singing from a chair.
The show was followed by an exciting and engaged conversation with the producer of this new fragile album. He is also unfairly handsome.  And he talked of how I could do this all better, or at least how it deserves better, my music deserves better, and we are proud of our project and excited about it, and I agreed, and we were focused, and still there was a part of me that fidgeted and played with my hair non-stop while we talked and I hope he didn’t  notice this but what do I care, anyway. I don’t care, but I do. And I was frustrated because of course my music deserves better but don't you think if I knew how to 'get it' I would have 'gotten it' by now?
And I got back to my Berlin room, after he too, walked me home in the rain. (I held my own umbrella for this one). And we bade each other good night and once I took my shoes off upstairs I realized how much my feet hurt, and then I lay down on the bed and tried to listen to our mixes again, but my feet hurt more than I could handle it and it distracted me.  I looked for some Tylenol. And I resented my loneliness. I resented that I wanted to tell someone how much my feet hurt but wasn’t sure who. And I wanted someone to take care of me, but I mean really take care of me. Take my songs and shop them out, get my groceries so I can not-overdo the walking while my arches heal, (oh God, I hope they heal) make me a sandwich, book my shows, pick me up, drive me around, love me, cuddle me. And then I started sobbing.  And I remembered the kindness of a small few who, over the years, held me in their arms through my sobs.  And I sobbed harder for having let them go.
And I thought I could confide all of this to a caring stranger. And I guess I am.
 I know I have a blessed life. And I’m just tired. And It’s all ok. It’s been ok and it will be ok. I live a life of luxury in many important ways.  It’s just that some days are really  hard, even when nothing goes wrong.  I just wanted you to know. 

Hey, I'm no expert, but I know way more about music than fitness. Still, after a month of taking this road-rattled musician’s body to the YMCA fitness centre in Toronto, I can say this with confidence. The only thing that beats the thought-prompting motion of the wheels of a bus, is the whirring of the elliptical machine as I stride repetitively and stare ahead of me. I have gone every day, and I have made some observations.   In the spirit of the ever-so-fashionable  “Ten ways that… ”  blog posts, I give you this: Ten ways in which “the Gym” is the same as “the music business” – 

1)      THERE IS ALWAYS GOING TO BE SOMEONE ‘FITTER’ THAN YOU.      Whether in the gym or in the world of music, no matter how far you go, no matter how fast, no matter how hard, there will ALWAYS be someone ahead of you. Best not assume you know anything about their life and how awesome it must be. Best, if you must, see them as an inspiration to keep you going. But go your own way. You are not doing this to be like somebody else. If you are, get ready for disappointment.   

2)      THERE WILL ALWAYS BE SOMEONE ‘WEAKER’ THAN YOU.  There will always be someone behind your pace, either struggling, or perfectly content to be doing less.  Do not look down on them as weak or as amateur. You know nothing of their path, nor of their goals.  Maybe they are rehabbing from some accident, maybe they are already ten times stronger than when they started. You don’t know. This is not a race.  If they catch you staring, smile at them in a way that implies congratulations, inclusiveness and encouragement, because… It is the same with someone who can only play three chords and sing off key. That song they’re singing may be keeping them afloat through a difficult part of life. Good for them for singing it.

3)      EVERYONE IS IN IT TO BETTER THEMSELVES IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER.   If someone has managed to get off their couch and get their bodies into a gym, to me that already seems miraculous. The same can be said for anyone who has managed to write a song, book a show, stand on a stage of any kind and share it with others. Both are acts of faith, courage, hard work, and wanting to improve as people.  Hooray for everyone. That being said…

4)      NOT EVERYONE IS IN IT FOR THE RIGHT REASONS.  Amid the sweating health, skill and enlightenment seekers, there will always be posers.  There will always be people more concerned with their fashion, who they are impressing, and what kind of attention they can get.  That is not what fitness, nor what music is about.  Attention is a by-product not a goal. It’s ok to enjoy it.. but you know exactly who I’m talking about. The ones who don’t actually care at all about what they say they care about.  Pay little attention to those people. Don’t judge the people who do pay attention to those people. Don’t be those people.

5)  THERE ARE SPORADIC GO-GETTERS AND DISCIPLINED LONG-HAULERS.   It is easy to pursue anything passionately  if you devote yourself for a short amount of time.  The real deal is found in the ones who have come to realize their life is really not manageable without it. The ones who have managed to strike a balance and pace that allows them to stick to it so their heart, mind, soul and body are working to support each other in a substantial and long-lasting way. But hey, hooray for the sporadic go-getters too. (See #3)

6)      THERE ARE THE ONE-TRACK ENTHUSIASTS, AND THE MORE GLOBAL SEEKERS. You might just be obsessed with heavy metal and with abs of steel, you might only love to zumba your ass off and listen to “world music”, or you might be the type to want as many styles and skills as possible. One is not better than the other. The age-old debate over perfecting one thing versus building multiple strengths in a less focused manner, has still never been answered. In general, though, in both fitness and music, being open to more than one aspect tends to strengthen other aspects. And trying new things is fun.

7)      YOU CAN FLEX YOUR HARDEST AND ‘KILL IT’ – OR YOU CAN GO THROUGH THE MOTIONS.  With every exercise I have tried, there is a way to do just the motions so you can keep going in class and look like everything’s ok, and then there’s a way to do the motions and engage every muscle in your body to do so. The same goes with musical performance.  What’s certain: The more engaged you are, the more results you’ll see.

8)      THERE IS ASTOUNDING AND WONDERFUL DIVERSITY – Fitness and music can be achieved and practiced by folks of all, shapes, sizes, and backgrounds and seeing this healthy diversity every day is inspiring and beautiful to behold.  Though I haven’t tried singing with the other ladies in the therapeutic whirlpool yet,  I bet you the acoustics for harmonies are great!

9)      FITNESS INSTRUCTORS HAVE TO PROMOTE THEMSELVES TO CREATE A FOLLOWING, EVEN DIGITALLY, JUST LIKE MUSICIANS!   This actually surprised me, but fitness instructors, yoga teachers, etc., have to promote themselves and create a following in order to get more teaching gigs.  Makes sense, but I never thought about it before. Many of them have facebook pages, and have to go through the similar awkward rigmarole of asking people to like their page. Yuck, but on the other hand, why not? Respect your instructor and the work and discipline they’ve put into making it as far as they have.  If you like their classes, tell people about them, including their employers. Respect your musicians similarly.  Spread the word!

10)   THERE ARE NO RULES, (OTHER THAN BASIC HUMAN CONDUCT TOWARD OTHERS).  WHETHER FITNESS OR MUSIC, SET YOUR OWN REASONABLE GOALS, DO IT BECAUSE IT MAKES YOU FEEL GOOD, FIND YOUR OWN RHYTHM, SET YOUR OWN PACE, AND GO! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR???  IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO START, AND THERE IS NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT!

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PS - there are many more possible points of comparison....  but nobody seems to like reading more than 10 things these days... ;) 
*Namaste!