After some technical difficulties earlier this week, on the actual summer solstice, we’re back in business. So Happy Belated Solstice!

Monday morning, I got up earrrrrrrly to celebrate the longest day of the year with some yoga in Times Square. As much as I loathe Times Square (with the fire of 1000 suns) and do my best to avoid it in my day to day life, I must admit that the sensation of lying in Savasana with the subway rumbling below me and the skyscrapers soaring above me (and the jackhammer rattling behind me) was, well, pretty cool.

Balancing and reaching up to the ceiling is one thing, but when that ceiling is the infinite sky, perspective goes out the window. Suddenly it seemed a precarious balance, all five feet five inches of me on two skinny legs. I felt myself wobble.

You are supported, the teacher reminded us. The ground is beneath you, supporting you. Trust that. We can extend because we are established.

I deepened my breath, planted my feet more firmly into the ground, and felt my stance solidify. We can extend because we are established. We can reach higher if we are grounded; we can stretch ourselves when we have built a solid foundation out of which to grow. The sun started to peek over the buildings and light up our faces.

All the days I sing my scales, vocalize and build that myelin around my healthy singing habits, I am laying the groundwork for the stretch, release, and LEAP that lies ahead.

All the days on the ground are what enable me to fly.

Last night I had a great class courtesy of MaxTheatrix — six of us (and a coach and a pianist) in a room for a few hours, trying out new things and working out old things and finding our own versions of homeruns in the audition room. It’s one of my favorite places to be: getting to use the time, the expertise, the mini-audience, however I need or choose to that week; getting to watch and support five other artists as they get up and do the same; the lessons learned from doing my work, and those learned from the gracious and generous work of my classmates; the joy of the music and the stories we tell and how each performer is so unique.

For my part I tried out some new material, including finding a cut of one of my album songs (thanks, Mike Pettry). I have some vocal growth ahead of me before I can show that song who’s boss (me? a challenge? no!), and so to stand in a room – in front of people! – and sing the whole thing, through, without stopping or giving up or commenting on it – was a minor feat.

It sounds so elementary. And I consider class a safe space (I wasn’t trying it for the first time in the audition room, for pete’s sake). And yet, and yet. It still amazes me how nervous I can get before certain situations that theoretically have no stakes and no consequences.

But I wasn’t. I still have all the little stories I tell to deflect things; all the excuses I make and extraneous gestures and running commentary that is so apparent when I see it in other performers and yet it pours out of me from I know not where as soon as I get up in the hot spot. But I’ve come a long way.

And the most amazing thing, to me, was how un-amazing it was. There were no trumpets and I didn’t have a major breakthrough and I didn’t cry, or make my audience cry, either. I just sang a song, and I didn’t make it mean any more than that. In fact, I barely noticed how easy and unremarkable it had all been until later – because I guess sometimes the best kind of growth and change happens a bit at a time, when you’re not looking.