I usually don't remember my dreams, at least the good ones. And while I won't go into details, aside from the fact that in one of my most recent ones one of the chief subjects of my thesis was trying to run me down and beat me with a baseball bat, suffice it to say they've been pretty anxiety inducing. Now I'm anxious and type-a enough without the added benefit of my unrestrained subconscious scaring the bejeezus out of me.

Grad school is hard, and while I can't speak to other disciplines' experiences, I know that the basic acknowledgement between faculty and students in the field of music is just this: both of us know I'm not the musician, scholar, or teacher I want to be yet, so let's get around to the business of trying to fix it. But sometimes it just feels hopeless, like you're trying to climb Mt. Everest with a paper clip and a piece of floss. Especially when your subconscious is just feeding your internal self-criticizing monologue. And with that internal monologue ramped up to epic proportions, it's hard to play the gig, or write the paper, or teach the class without feeling like everything you put out is only a step up from garbage.

But if yoga, and martial arts, and running, and the beginnings of my meditation practice have taught me anything, it's that no matter how uncomfortable the state of being, you just keep breathing. Eventually the muscle will loosen, you'll hit the runner's wall, and you'll slip into a calmer state where you CAN fix the problems, because they are still there, and see life and your work without the self-destructive goggles.

Unfortunately, I'm still in the uncomfortable part.

Peace, Love, and Tunes,

Mac.