The Beauty Is: Love is for Everyone

*My goal in writing this blog is to record the discoveries, the beautiful and transcendent events, transformations and tender mercies I find in life which lead me to greater good.  I do not wish to turn "flowers" into a "Gay Mormon"  or "Moho" blog, although those types of blogs have their place.  This post is a reflection on an experience which has fueled a lot of thought for me, and I'm sure posts on similar subjects will follow.  I'm not afraid, nor am I ashamed, but I do ask any Reader to read with love and empathy.


My university's musical theater department is putting on a production of Adam Guettel's The Light in the Piazza.  It's a beautiful story in which the main character (Margaret, a middled-aged mother from North Carolina) begins to see how love can make a person blossom as she witnesses the way her daughter (Clara, an innocent and beautiful young woman) grows when she falls in love with a young Italian man (synopsis here).

I've been brought on as the production's pianist.  Auditions and call backs were held about two weeks ago.  I was impressed with the exceptional level of talent and preparation that many fresh-faced and bright-eyed students brought to their auditions; I was also a bit unsure of how these young actors would be able to pull off characters who are 20+ years older than they.  I knew that when my friend, Kathy, entered the audition, she'd be sure to impress.  Kathy is a 40-something, conservative LDS woman, thoughtful and empathetic, and she has a fantastic soprano voice.  The only thing standing against her playing the role of Margaret was the fact that she's a voice major (read: not a musical theater major).  She gave a great audition and made both call backs, but didn't get the part.

We were talking in a hallway at school, just after auditions.  I was tired from having just sight-read what seemed like the entire American Musical Theatre Songbook for the past three hours, and I was hungry.  Kathy began a conversation I wouldn't quite realize I didn't want to have until it was too late.

"I learned a new phrase today," she said.

"Oh?" I queried.

"Yeah.  We were sitting outside auditions, talking about the characters.  The fact that Fabrizio is a tenor role came up and one of the girls said that whoever plays Fabrizio has to be able to 'keep his fruit in the fridge.'" Kathy giggled.  "I wasn't quite sure what she meant, but I thought about it for a minute.  And then, I got it!"

"Ah, that age-old stereotype that every tenor is a gay man, and Fabrizio is a straight role" I rolled my eyes and smiled.

"Yes, that." Kathy said.  She paused for a moment, and then went on.  "You know, they don't have to be gay."

Oh, shit, I grumbled inside myself.  I don't want to have this conversation with you right now.  Deflect Nic!  Deflect!

"Oh, I think that depends on who you're talking to, Kathy," I shrugged.

"No," she posed.  "It's a choice they can make.  We all have to make tough choices.  Why do they think they have to be gay?"

Now let me tell you, I love Kathy.  She is a dear, dear friend, but I was incredibly stunned and hurt by what she was saying.  I wanted to tell her that -- having discussed the very topic of whether or not anyone "chooses" to be gay with self-identified gay men and lesbian women, and also being a gay man myself -- I know that sexual identity is not a choice.  True, identifying one's self as gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered is a choice of recognition and reconciliation with one's self, but the attractions which lead any human being to identify as GLBT is not.  Coming out is a very delicate, difficult process (that action deserves a series of posts in and of itself), and I commend anybody who finds the courage to do it.

For my own reasons, I decided to withhold the disclosing of my sexual preference from Kathy.  It wasn't imperative.  We work regularly together in a variety of musical settings, but I don't believe I'll have much need of sharing any information about possible significant others with her.  I said something about needing to heat up some food and get my blood sugar back in balance and I left, agitated and upset.

Perhaps playing Maragaret would have lead Kathy to make discoveries about why it is we love, and why we must give everyone the room and space to love whoever it is they love.  Perhaps I should have used the conversation in the hall to give Kathy a larger vision of what is "right" and what is "wrong."  Maybe, like Margaret's character, Kathy would have have the epiphany that LOVE IS FOR EVERYONE.  I'm sorry she didn't get the role, and feel a little regret that I didn't say anything more.

"Love if you can, oh my Clara!
Love if you can, and be loved--"

May we all come to that kind of understanding.

Skinny Jeans

Ok. I did it.  I purchased my first pair of skinny jeans, a feat which I never imagined I'd undertake.  You see, I don't have the best relationship with my body.  At 5'10" and 130 lbs, I'm just a little slip of a thing, and I've never liked being skinny.  I've avoided any sort of clothing that accentuates my slim and slender frame; in fact, I usually have worn quite a few layers, just to feel like I look a little bulkier than I am.  Or, I'd buy everything a size too big and end up getting lost in fabric.Those tricks never worked, though: I usually looked like I just didn't know how to wear clothes.

I've worn my new jeans a few times since buying them, and I've received quite a few compliments, which has helped me feel more comfortable about wearing such ass-hugging pants.  Enter my dear, delightful mother.

"I thought you didn't like skinny jeans," she commented yesterday.

"Well, Mom," I answered, "I'm trying them out.  A lot of people have said I look great in them."

She frowned as she walked toward the laundry room with a bag of clothes, "But they make you look so...skinny."

I was upset by her disapproval, but didn't want to argue with her.  I have, however, thought quite a lot about why I was angered by her comment.  I think it boils down to the fact that I'm coming to terms with the fact that, hey, I am skinny.  I've become more comfortable with my body.  I'm buying clothes that fit well, rather than buying things a size bigger and baggier so I can feel less little.  I feel like I look good, and other people are noticing.  I guess I wanted my mom to see the way I wore the skinny jeans -- with confidence and style -- rather than seeing that they were only skinny.

I know my mom wasn't attacking me, but I'm kind of glad I got defensive about how I'm dressing myself.  That flare of whatever it was shows me that I really believe there's nothing wrong with my small frame.  That I'm taking pride in myself.  That I can -- and sometimes honestly do -- see myself as an articulate, successful and (yes, even this appealing adjective) an attractive young man.

Cabaret Night

My best friend, Corey, sent me a text last weekend, "Hey, my plans fell through this evening.  Are you doing anything tonight?"  I smiled and rolled my eyes, trying to remember who it was he was supposed to be going out with that night, but he has too many admirers to keep straight.  Nice, I thought, a bit ascerbically. I really just love being the back-up plan when his dates cancel.  Rehearsals had gone long that Friday afternoon and I hadn't had any food; I was in a sour mood.  "I'm going to Cabaret Night tonight.  A few of my friends will be in the show.  You're more than welcome to join me," I texted back.  "Meet me around seven."

I was late meeting him, as I usually am.  He was waiting, smirking as I got out of my car, rushed and flustered and carrying an empty Arby's sack.  I offered my apologies, "Sorry I wasn't here right on time.  I had to grab a bite to eat."  We ran inside, payed the suggested donation and waited outside the door until we heard applause after the first performance.  After entering the room, we scouted out a couple of chairs on the back row and sat ourselves down.

We enjoyed the numbers, gasping with delight when Kaylyn sang Sunday in the Park with George; clamping our hands to our hearts as Angela belted about leaving the schmuck she'd been wintering with; sighing as Cameron sang a lovesong from Adam Guettle's Myths and Hymns; and getting "the church giggles" as Liz milked it like crazy in "The Alto's Lament."  I was as impressed my friends' performances as I've ever been, and I quite liked watching Corey's varied reactions to the powerhouse talent at Weber State.

"And now, for something a bit out of the ordinary," Gregory, our MC for the night, introduced the next performer.  "Please welcome Harrison to the stage as he performs a dance piece he choreographed."

I wasn't quite sure what to expect.  Now, in the kindest way possible, Harrison is just not always someone I understand, and I was a little embarrassed for him as he bumbled along, setting up his CD player at the front of the room.  Isn't that a little tacky? I wondered.  Bringing your own CD player onstage?  That should've been set up before the show--

"Um.  So okay, guys.  This is a dance choreographed to Ingrid Michaelson's 'Men of Snow,'" Harrison announced.  "I'd just like to thank you guys for allowing me a venue to perform this in."  Oh, our Utah grammar makes itself known, I silently chided.  Someone should tell him it's "a venue in which to perform."  My sense of smug, snide superiority sometimes worries me.  I thought, I'm a bitch.

And then the music began--

Once I made a man all out of snow
He had the darkest eyes and a button nose
I told him all my sadness and my fear
And he just listened with a snowy ear...

And Harrison danced.  Beautifully.  With a snowman he created in the air.  He looked so happy to be dancing with this invisible man of snow we all could see.  He used such long, lyrical movments in connection with short, sharp, almost seizing guestures.  I was taken aback, and I coudn't take my eyes off him.

But when I came around the next day
My friend had gone and melted all away
I saw his eyes lying on the ground
And I made a sound that was something like crying

We watched as Harrison bent down and picked up the snowman's eyes, shock and fear filling his own.  He continued to repeat those siezing guestures as he moved and circled across the floor.  I imagine it was his way of expressing the ceaseless question of "Why?  Where did you go?"

Oh one day you will go away from this
Oh one day you will know we're men of snow
We melt
One day

I heard that lyric in the chorus, "you will go away from this," and I thought of Grandma.  I wasn't prepared for the ache in my throat which was the ache in my soul which was witnessing the poignant beauty and sorrow in life and death expressed in dance.  I tried to keep my composure, but my tears started to fall.  I continued to watch Harrison dance, safe with the belief I'd just cry quietly and no one would notice.

Ingrid sang the last verse, telling us that "...It won't really matter when we disappear."  There is a slight break in the music before the last chorus.  The chorus, accompanied by strings and a choir of voices, rises up the scale and crescendos beautifully.  I rose with with it, and Harrison's choreography became such an active evocation of passion and grief -- so much honest movement.

Then, the piano played its motive, passing the song to the strings and chorus.  He stopped dancing.  He heaved his shoulders and sighed the heaviest, saddest sigh.  He stayed there for the remainder of the song, on one side of the stage, staring down at the floor, where a man of snow once stood.  The image was too much.  I broke.  I sobbed.  I tried to ignore the fact the the people on either side of me (one of whom was my dear Corey) were concerned at my emotional purge.

I left during the applause and found the nearest bathroom and wept and wept and wept.  I knew that Corey, kind friend that he is, would be coming to find me if I wasn't back by the next number (and he later told me he was considering doing that very thing), so I took time to compose myself and then went back to see the rest of the show.

I love the theater because it does that sort of opening-up-thing to you when you're least prepared for--and when you're in most need of--being open up.  I wasn't even thinking about the deep, heavy parts of my life when I met Corey in the parking lot that night.  I was late and rushed and in a hurry to get inside and sit down and ride the wave of a light and entertaining show.  But Harrison's dance piece invited me to stop, take stock, and remember how to feel.  I'd sent my feelings on vacation for quite some time, but it was nice to have them back that night.  And every day since.

Thank you, Harrison, for reminding me that deep beauty can be found where you least expect it.

Musings at Midnight: Rachmaninov's Song, "Son" (Sleep), Op. 38, No. 5

The opening motive in the piano tentatively weaves, and then, her voice -- enticing as any dream-drenched siren call -- to tell how

There is nothing
more desirable
In the world than the dream.

Sung in the soft consonants and lilting rhythms of French, the song intoxicates me with "the magic stillness" sleep promises. I sit here, listening, and I marvel at how Rachmaninov can cultivate a feeling of endlessness when, all the while, the piano drifts in currents of 32nd notes. It's the lack of traditional harmonic progression, I guess. The pianist plays around a few notes, accompanied by simple chords in the LH; the soprano sings a kind of texted vocalise, describing sleep's "bottomless eyes." She searches for a harmonic footing, but doesn't quite reach that place of rest. The piano, in muted octaves, begins to add triple to its duples, then 16ths and a crescendo of arppegiations and turns -- almost like some graceful bird rising, wings taking flight.

She finally finds a melody, dark and reverent and powerful. Rising up for six notes, and then descending, yet to rise and fall again. She reaches, sings the scale up to its soft, sky-filled xenith. Yearning, yearning for being "as light as the shadow of midnight," the piano echoing in countermelodies beneath. I know that yearning (my love affair with the music of Rachmaninov).

It's unfathomable
how it carries them,
and where and on what;

She finally settles into a transcendent musical line, ends the last measures of her phrase just short of the tonic note. The final 30 seconds of the song close with a lovely piano solo, diaphanous as angels' wings.

It's an amazingly fulfilling song. Desire, stillness, dreaminess, longing, homesickness and finding a place of rest -- such a symphonic living out of emotion with just one pianist and one soprano.

God is worshipped with music of this sort.

Jenny Gets a New Coat - Part III

I walked over to a rack where Jenny was fingering the green scarf she had worn earlier  as well as another in a deep maroon shade.

"Ok, Jen," I said, using my most commanding voice, "You're getting the coat."

"But I can't--"

"No, not another word.  We're doing this for you because you deserve something nice.  It's about time somebody treated you to a thing like this, and we're doing it.  Somebody grab that coat before somebody else does.  Corey, give Jules your twenty.  I'll give her what I've got, too.  Jen, you get yourself a couple of scarves.  They're two for twelve.  You can afford that, right?"

"Yeah, I think so," came the shocked response.  "You don't have to do this."

"We know," Corey and Jules both said.

"We're doing it because we want to do something good for you.  How did you feel when you put the coat and the scarf on?" Jules asked.  "Pretty great, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Then let us get it for you."

"I'll pay you guys back when I get a little bit of money.  Really?  You're really doing this?" Jenny couldn't believe it.

I loved every bit.  "You bet we are, my dear."

We walked up to the register, where Julyn bought the coat.  We walked out to the car, where Jenny promptly put it on.  We arrived at the reception just barely in time to see the ring ceremony.

I've thought a lot about how great it made me feel to do something like this for Jenny.  I didn't feel any anxiety about giving up a chunk of money that could have paid for a tank of gasoline of a couple of nice dinners with friends.  I wasn't worried that I may not see that money come back to me for a while.  I wasn't upset about any of that because I was so happy to see my friend happy because she felt good about how she looked.  It was totally worth it.

We often hear about people giving the clothes off their backs to show love and support, and Jenny has always done that for all of our friends.  She has been one of the first to show love and the last to mete out condemnation when any of us have struggled.  She is a beautiful individual, and I want her to see herself as such.  I guess, in a small way, we kind of did that for Jen when we bought a coat to put on her back.  We did it because we're old friends.  We did it, because, really, when it boils down, we've become family.  And families -- including the ones we create outside our biological ones -- work best when we build each other up and help each other feel our bests.

And Jenny LOVES her new coat!  :D

Jenny Gets a New Coat - Part II

We all knew she looked good, too, and our chorus of compliments grew in crescendo.

"You've got to get it, Jen," I said.  "It's a good, warm coat, and it looks great on you!  The way it cinches around your waist is superb -- so flattering."  Jenny was just smiles.

And then, she looked at the price tag.  One hundred some-odd dollars.  A sum far and above what Jenny has ever been willing to pay for any item of clothing she purchases.  "No," she shook her head in disappointment and started untying the scarf wrapped around her neck, "I've got some bills to pay and a few other things and payday isn't until next week.  Still, it was fun to try it on and pretend for a minute."

"But Jenny," I was incredulous, "it's 50% off."

"It's totally worth it, Jen," Corey concurred.

"And," chimed in Jules, taking the scarf from Jenny's hands, "if I buy it for you 'as a gift,' I can add my employee discount to the sale price."

"I just can't do it right now," Jenny argued.

"What if Corey and I put in the cash, and Jules adds the discount, Jen?"

"And you think of it as your Christmas present," Jules continued.

"And maybe part of your birthday, too?" Corey finished.

Again, Jenny refused, "I'm not going to let you guys do that.  That's nice and all, but I just can't have you do that."

Oh, we were disappointed, but that didn't stop us from dressing the rest of us up in coats and sweaters and scarves.  We had a grand time selecting winter fashions for each other, modelling our picks for the dressing room attendant, and posing as she took our picture.

When we took our items back to their tables and racks, I took Corey aside.  "We've got to do something, Corey.  It will be a tragedy if she doesn't walk out of here wearing her coat.  It is the last one in her size.  I checked.  I've got about $40 I can give her for it."

"And I've got about $20.  Let's do it," he motioned Julyn over, explaining our idea to buy the coat for Jenny since she wouldn't do it herself. 

Jules was all for it.  "Did you see how happy she looked when she was wearing it.  Sometimes, a girl just needs a good piece of clothing to help her feel good.  Give me the cash, and I'll buy it.  With my discount, $60 should be about right."

Now, we just had to convince Jenny.

Jenny Gets a New Coat - Part I

Oh, the joys of living the Life Trendy in Small-Town, USA!

Julyn, Jenny, Corey and myself had just finished the delicious wedding luncheon of our dear friends Jamie and Dan, catered by the most expensive restaurant in town.  Jamie was one of the most beautiful brides I've ever seen, and Dan was radiant with joy.  It proved to be a lovely dinner: Jules and I, being naturally theatrical and a bit flamboyant, serenaded our table-partners with the old standards of Nat King Cole, Dean Martin, Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra while Jenny and Corey sat at the end of the table, giggling together about our musical antics and commenting on the intricate, silvery beadwork on Jamie's bodice.  And now, we had two hours to kill before the reception was to begin.  What to do?

Jenny suggested we drive to the nearest Borders and peruse the shelves.  "That sounds like a great idea!  What's better than spending a pleasant, drowsy afternoon in a fabulous bookstore?  Let's go," I agreed.  So we left the restaurant and headed down the street.  Five minutes later, we were parking our cars at the strip mall where our Borders was located, neighboring our town's only Old Navy clothing store.

Julyn, recently employed by Old Navy, advertised their latest special to our quartet, "We're having an exceptional sale on outerwear this week.  Everything's 50% off."  Then, whetting the impeccable taste for fashion Corey and I share, she smiled and teased,  "Oh, and boys, our argyle is to die for!  And, the scarves that came in the new shipment are great, too.  Wanna go in for just a minute?  I need to check my schedule, anyway."

No one objected, and we marched right in.  After indulging the boys for more than a few minutes in the men's clothing section, the girls meandered over to the women's.  Following them, my eye lit on this wonderful ode to American style and seamstering.  I called Corey over.

"We have to find a way to get Jenny to try this on.  It's perfect for her.  Look at the cut, and the buttons!  Oh!  The the lining! -- that's a superb shade of fuschia!  It'd pair beautifully with that black handbag up there.  Where did those girls go?  They're not at the clearance rack, are they?!"

"You're not kidding.  It is beautiful," Corey agreed.  "Jenny!  Jules! Get over here, and bring a couple of pretty scarves with you.  We've got a little something we want Jenny to try on."

I could tell Jenny wanted that coat as soon as she saw it.  I sensed we had to find a way to convince her she had to get it as soon as she started slipping her arms through the sleeves.  I knew we couldn't leave the store without that overcoat in a sack on Jenny's arm as soon as we had buttoned it up.  It fit her perfectly.  Corey, Jules and I were speechless for a moment (a feat in and of itself), and then Julyn started tying a green, sparkly scarf around Jenny's neck.

"That scarf doesn't match the dress I'm wearing," Jenny tried to protest.

"That doesn't matter at all," Jules asserted. "You can wear whatever color of scarf you want with this coat, and no one can tell what you're wearing under it.  This camel color is perfect -- it'll match anything.  Now, take your ponytail out and let your hair down."

"Jules is right," Corey said.  "And it looks great when you fluff the scarf up like that."

"Here," I added, "try this bag.  No, it's not too big.  Yes, it's black.  No, it doesn't have to match.  It's just right.  Trust me."

Once we had Jenny all spiffied up and accessoried, we took her to a mirror to see our handiwork.  The moment she saw herself is one of the priceless memories I'll always keep tender.  Jenny is not the kind of girl who wears make-up.  She doesn't really agonize over what she's going to wear (she works as a teacher's aid in the schools, so how fancy does she need to be?).  I don't think she really considers herself "pretty."  I watched Jenny as she appraised the image in the mirror.  The slump of her shoulders straightened up.  The shuffle of her feet took on a more confident step.  Her smile put the overhead flourescent light to shame, and you could see in her eyes that she knew she looked good.

On How to Live Abundantly