Judgment, by Tracy Helming, www.alimahdances.com

I went to the opera by myself last night. Having held subscription tickets since moving to Seattle, this was approximately the 40th opera I've attended here. For years, opera goers were always treated to some unbidden exit music by a little man and his tuba. His pitch was obscure and meandering, but his tone followed us for blocks. I never stopped to listen, didn't put money in his case, didn't even notice that he always donned a creative and colorful hat for his performances. He and his music were not there last night, nor will they ever be again. He died in November. I cried and cried last night as I realized that over all of those years I had only noticed that his intonation needed work, but not that his perseverance was monumental, or that he was pouring his heart through his music out to each person in the crowd.

This is not the first time I've realized too late that I had missed the real beauty of an individual because I had been preoccupied with my judgment of them. I used to work closely with a Suzuki violin teacher who was literally world famous. She taught workshops all over the country, and had a flock of students that were devoted to her. We used to hold recitals together, choosing students each month to perform. Did I really spend each recital comparing the various merits of each student, stacking up the abilities of their teachers in comparison? Our teaching styles and methods were very different. I loved Yuko, but still there was that nagging, perpetual judgment that kept me from fully enjoying, appreciating, and embracing who she was.

What is this judgment? What is it doing to my life? How would I be different without it?

I had a dream a couple of months ago. At that time in my life, I was debating going to law school, or returning to my career in music. The dream took place in an old sun bleached mill where I was attending a music festival. A friend of mine (who is a lawyer in real life) came and visited me at the music camp, as well as my husband's Aunt Sara Jo. They both told me that I really should see the therapist who owned the mill, a certain "Dr. Clinton" (yes, Bill and Hillary's long lost son!). I met him downstairs in a very dark room. We sat by a fire, across a table from each other. He told me to drink a glass full of ashes, which was a truth serum. After I drank it, he asked me, "What do you really want?" I woke up.

I believe that the truth serum of ashes is a call from my inner self to burn up the judgment I place on myself, the constant seeing of myself through other people's eyes. Only when I get rid of that vision of myself as I imagine other people see me will I be able to really see myself from my own perspective, and without judgment.

My husband attended Ed McMichael's (the tubist's) memorial service at Qwest Field, along with more than 1500 other quiet fans. What I didn't see in this man did reach the hearts and minds of many others who were open enough to appreciate his gift. I don't despair though. Today is a new day, and I begin it with a new vision of how I want to be, and a rubber band around my wrist for me to snap whenever judgment tries to take my vision away from what is really important.