Two years ago—on the Tuesday after Easter—I performed in my first recital after daring myself to face my fears and sign up for a vocal class at the Nashville Jazz Workshop. I remember the date well because on that Easter Sunday I had to drag myself to the urgent care clinic, so sick from coughing and a fever that I completely lost my voice. They gave me a cortisone shot and I somehow got it together enough to show up two days later and sing the tunes I’d practiced in class for 12 weeks. I had to learn how to sing into a mic, count a band in and lead them, and deal with the terror of being on stage in front of an audience. But I did it! I got up there with my pockets full of cough drops and tissues, having no idea if I was going to hit the notes or have a coughing fit. And when I watch this video, I’m as proud of myself as I can ever remember being, simply for having done something that scared me so much.
I woke up this morning thinking about that day, and about the song “Moon River” that I sang. It’s such a flawless creation and one of my all time favorites, with lyrics by Johnny Mercer and music by Henry Mancini. The words and melody perfectly capture the longing of the past with a hope for the future.
As I was lying in bed thinking about the song, it brought back another memory. About a dozen years ago I went to an event called Aspen Live, which was a music industry gathering for mostly booking agents and promoters. It was a particularly rough patch I was going through then, exhausted and miserable running the magazine I’d had for about 15 years, and so scared of the future. I had been approached by a large entertainment company about the possibility of buying the magazine, and I was there at the conference to meet with them. But the thought of selling my company was just as terrifying. I couldn’t go backwards and I couldn’t see forward—I was just stuck and scared and felt really alone.
On the first afternoon when most folks were skiing, I was sitting by myself in the lobby of the lodge where we were all staying, writing and thinking about what I wanted to have happen the next day in my meeting. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace, and a woman about my age sat down in the big leather chair next to me and ordered a cup of soup and glass of wine. We started talking and she asked what I did. I began to spill everything to her about the magazine and the toll it was taking on me, having no idea what I was supposed to do next, and that there wasn’t anyone I was able to confide in about possibly selling my company because I was worried about word getting out that I was even entertaining the thought. And although selling it would help me financially, I worried about my staff and I couldn’t imagine having to work for a company where I knew the soul of what I’d created would be killed.
She was such a great listener, and then she started sharing the story of her life with me, growing up the child of a famous songwriter. That’s when I found out her name was Felice Mancini, and she was Henry’s daughter. I was in heaven for the rest of the evening, listening to stories she shared that felt so sacred. She talked about his songs—including “Moon River”—and about running Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation that gets instruments into schools. And she reminded me that sometimes knowing what we don’t want is as important as knowing what we do want.
I went into my meeting the next day much more hopeful and sure of myself, and turned down further talks with that company. I was able to see just far enough into the future to keep going with the magazine until I knew what felt right in my gut, and then fold it on my own terms. And by following that path, I’ve gotten to live my life swimming in all the magic that has happened since.
I thought I’d re-share this video of “Moon River” with you because it was a reminder to me today—when I needed it—to be brave. And that something wonderful might very well be waiting ‘round the bend.
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