I’m on the plane, getting ready to take off from Los Angeles.  I’m exhausted.  Wrung out.  Normally when I come here I’m energized.  On top of the world.  I could almost float home.  But not this time.  This time I sink into my seat, just kind of wishing I was already home.

I’m feeling like I failed myself.

What happened?

The microphone and my emotions got the best of me.

Whenever I have studio time with Drew, I have a list of stuff to work on.  A mixture of vocals, writing, and production.  This time a lot of it was vocals.  We planned to sing as long as I could, and then switch to something else.

One of the songs I had at the top of my list was “When You Were Here”.  So, while I’m waiting for Drew to come into the studio, I listen to the version of the song we’ve previously done.  And tears are streaming down my face.

They don’t stop.

I listen to the song 3 more times, and the tears keep coming.  Now I panic.  There’s no way I can sing this song.  I’m too upset.  We’re not supposed to perform with uncontrolled emotion.  It has to be real.  We’re supposed to be fully present with it.  And at the same time, it can’t be controlling us like this.

This song is one Drew and I wrote to express how I felt a few years after Jerry died.  How much I still missed him.  And though this isn’t really how I feel now, the song can bring me back there.  You know, the feeling, right?  A song transports you right back into your old memory.  Like no time has passed at all.  Whether those memories are sweet, or sorrowful.

When Drew comes in the room, I tell him there’s no way I can sing this song.  That I’m going to need some time to practice singing it without breaking down.

And so we decide to sing something else.  A song with a completely different feeling.  A blend of joy and triumph.

There’s just one problem.

My heart is still feeling what it felt.  Though I tried to put those emotions aside, it didn’t work.  And now I’m singing this song with no emotion whatsoever.  No matter how hard I try.

I sing and sing and sing.  It probably takes 5 takes before I even sound like I care at all.  It’s pretty.  And completely devoid of emotion.  Dead. Disconnected from myself.  Like a plastered-on smile.  Drew says I sound like I’m singing at him instead of to him.

And he’s right.

That seems to set the tone for the weekend.  I get the spark and all goes well for a while.  And then it dies again.  As I’m driving to the airport and listening to what we did, I can hear it.  The dead spots.  The places where I’m trying too hard.  Not letting it flow.

That’s why I get on the plane feeling like I’m dragging my tail between my legs.  Because, instead of singing through my tears, I stopped myself.  I tried to act my way through the situation, and it showed.

What would have been the harm to let the tears fall as I sang?  Sure, it would have been a hot mess.  The first time.  And maybe even the second or third time.  But there could have been something magical about it too.  Raw.  Intimate.  Maybe a few sections we could use.  And fill in with some takes that weren’t quite so emotionally wrought.

Maybe I was afraid I’d never be able to stop crying.  Maybe I was afraid it would strain my voice.  Maybe I didn’t want to cry in front of Drew.  I’m not sure.  But I have a sneaking suspicion that I didn’t want to feel what I felt.  I didn’t think I could face it.  So I chose not to.

I wish I had.  Wish I had the courage to sing in the face of all I was feeling.  Just let it flow.  Like I say, it could have been magic.  Or maybe not have worked at all.  But at least it would have been real and true.

I don’t know about you, but I keep having to learn this lesson.  That it’s best to head straight for the pain, breathe into it, than to try and avoid it.  The best way out is really through.   And yet, so many times I try and hold my breath.  Ignore it.  Push it down.  Tighten my throat so it doesn’t leak out.  And all that gives me is a stiff neck and a voice disconnected from my heart.

If you’re reading this and can see places where you’ve maybe done the same thing, I hope you take this to heart, as I am.  I hope you face your painful place head on.  Not to fight it.  To embrace it.  Breathe into it.  As you do, it loosens its grip on your heart and soul.

The next time I go to California, I’m going to sing that song no matter how many times I cry.  I’m going to let myself feel.  And watch what happens.  What are you going to do?  Let me know in the comments.