Photography: Andrew Kaczor
Fun fact for those of you who know me from my original music, my cover career, and my intense enthusiasm for conversation about albums, artists, and sound in general. However, I was doing something before I was jamming at the piano. I was skiing. My parents allege that I first hit the slopes at the age of 3. This, of course, was on a small kid's practice hill, what they called a "bunny hill." I don't know if it was the usual snowy Ohio winters or my low center of gravity (I'm 4'10" as an adult), but I took a shine to traditional skiing, then racing, then a bit of stunt work with trick skis. Every time I arrived at the local ski resort, I remember feeling incredible pride when I would fill out the skier ability level sheet to get the proper resistance set up for my body's ability: Level III. Check. I placed in a few of the local ski races in my preteen years, and went on to tackle double black diamonds in New York, Pennsylvania and Vermont into my teenage years. I wanted to tackle Colorado next. I loved the thrill of the speed, conquering moguls, and beating other people to the bottom, only to take the lift back up and do it all again. I didn't mind the cold; the warmth of the ski lodge was all the more satisfying after a couple of hours on the slopes. Hot pretzels and hot chocolate were fitting rewards. I was always a daredevil kid. A few medical emergency highlights include a sprained ankle from soccer practice, trying to tough out what might have been Meningitis, and a snake bite (yes, I engaged with the snake). Also, the following. My cousin Andrew got me interested in trying stunts. He's a phenomenal snowboarder, and even with my experience, I pale in comparison when it comes to baseplates meeting powder. He is also an incredible photographer with a keen eye for motion and color, and found a niche in photographing snowboarders (as well as being the subject of some shots for magazines, if my memory serves me correctly). He even moved out West for awhile to chase his passion in both areas. Yes, that's his photography work above. (Not of me...sheesh!) One day I was tackling a jump I'd done countless times. Correct me if I'm wrong, mom and dad, but in my memory, the peak of the jump was taller than me, so upwards of 6 feet. Normally, my skis whizzed along, my poles nestled securely under my armpits, and my goggles whisked the snow from my vision: I was lazer-locked in. On this particular day, I wanted to try a 180, landing backward and spinning back out to garner more speed forward. I had also done this before, however, on this particular day, my ski caught wrong somewhere somehow and the next thing I knew, my brain was pulling back black curtains from my eyes and red-coated staff was getting ready to strap me in a gurney to take me down to Medical. The rest of the day was a bit fuzzy. Ever since then I've been a bit hesitant to try challenging physical endeavors. I even avoided getting a bike for many years, and once I had one, the first few rides were terrifying. It's like my mortality was slapped back into my head. Today, John and I went ice skating. I haven't done that in awhile...not for any given reason, but maybe because I used to be so busy gigging, If I had to guess. Maggie Daley park was beautiful, the sun was shining and we had nearly 40-degree weather. I was so excited for this excursion, this change of pace, and I didn't think anything of it. We got our skates after checking in and laced up. "It's just like skiing," I told John, remembering the sweaty lodge smell and the struggle of snapping in my own ski boots as a kid. As I stepped onto the ice, I faltered. A fluke, I noted. But then I pushed off and faltered again, and felt the embarrassment rise, flushing my mask-concealed cheeks (thank goodness). After a few more shaky steps I had to ask John to hold my hand. I hate asking for help. So here's the thing: is it a matter of practice? I was a born snowbunny. If I had to ask my childhood self if she'd ever be scared of ice skating, she would have laughed in my face. Yet, here I was, fumbling along, executing my worst nightmare: relying on (ugh!) a man for help! Luckily John is my favorite dude, and he was the sweetest about it, as he always is. We made it through about 90 minutes of laps before our time slot had expired and we headed home. Now I'm having a whiskey cocktail and wondering just how sore I'll get. I wonder where my confidence went, and what spaces it left unoccupied for the fear to settled in. In any case, I'm glad I did it. The fire in our condo is roaring and I have the night off. Life is good, and I'll try again next season. Maybe I'll hit the slopes again, too. Until tomorrow, stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Love, Cassandra
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The last year has offered the gift of time to many people who've chosen to use it in different ways. Some have enjoyed the downtime, and others have gotten around to old projects that they had abandoned in the wake of too much work or too many responsibilities. I've done a little of both.
One of the frenzies at the beginning of the pandemic was home repair. I remember reading that Home Depot was running out of certain supplies for awhile, and I witnessed a line out the door when I made a trip there myself. We own a two-bedroom condo, so there isn't much to do in the way of fixing roofs or painting the exterior, but we have a lot of instruments (somewhere around 6 guitars, two basses, a grand piano, a Wurlitzer, a ukulele, three keyboards, a cajon and a ton of other aux percussion...) and a lot of books. That being said, our home projects have involved a lot more organization, the hanging of our art collection, and a few small purchases to brighten up our work/home/play space. I'm most pleased with our bedroom. It's about the size of our living room (for some reason) and half of the space previously sat unused. Now it's our teaching and streaming studio, sporting a beautiful chest, a wildly colorful rug, sound equipment, a desk, that new bookshelf I shared the other day, and a room divider. It is extremely "extra" but it makes me happy. As my home has morphed, so have I. I read a few articles on how chronic stress actually changed the DNA of lab rats. It's something regarding telomeres and the breaking of the molecular composition of the strands, so rather than trying to explain it just read what this researcher says. She will actually make it make sense. John and I went on a walk at the beginning of the lockdowns, and I remember telling him, "We are going to be different people on the other side of this pandemic, and of course, he agreed. I went on to tell him how chronic stress doesn't only create a mental shift, but a physical one as well. I know this from my PTSD diagnosis and therapy (including EMDR; perhaps more on this another time). I also know it from life experience. I was a happy kid. I am a generally anxious and skeptical adult, and this is certainly due to the fact that I had periods of chronic trauma, and incidents of single episode trauma. (Single episode trauma, as I see it, and to avoid any trigger words would be like getting in a car accident. In my case, my car was my body.) With every frightening and life-altering incident, my brain adapted to be on high alert to prevent those things from happening again. I call this "kicked puppy syndrome." When a dog is young, if you hit it, it will cower from you well into adulthood, even if it's transferred to a happy home. I know this because my childhood dog, Milo, had a very gentle and loving upbringing in the Kaczor household, but never let us pet him without bowing away. That's how we knew he was abused before we got him. Alright, enough example-specific heavy talk! But I'm bringing all of these things up to say that I have seen how the pandemic has changed me. I'm more withdrawn. I am afraid of getting phone calls. I don't really like to go places. I've seen my friends change, too. I learned that some people I really love are extremely selfish, demanding, or that they lack empathy. I've seen others soften and make more space for empathy. Maybe they were always that. Maybe it's been a coal-to-diamond pressure level of a year. Just like my home, I'm a little different now. I have a few more mental paintings hung, a few more accessories in my frontal lobe via the time to read and create. And maybe some parts of me went to the local resale shop as a donation. I feel stripped down and vulnerable, like I'm finally getting to know myself in my 30th year. I think I like the updated version of me. I'm just worried other people won't. But that'll be a problem for another time. I've got enough on my plate as is, and so do you. The big questions tend to work themselves out. Thanks for reading. And until tomorrow, stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Much love, c There are multitudes of ways to cope when life presents challenges. I'm pretty sure I know someone of every preference: the depression napper, the overeater, the social media addict, the workaholic. You might think, "wow, that's judgy," but it's not coming from a place of judgment at all. I have used all of those coping mechanisms in the last year, and probably before the pandemic, too. I just didn't realize it.
Perhaps a year ago I would have criticized myself for the Twitter doomscrolling, the movie marathons, and the previous day's afternoon cocktails soaked up with salami, Gouda, and crackers followed by a food coma nap. Today, not so. We're taught from a very young age that too much of anything, even a good thing, is bad news. You can overexercise! Over-socialize! (Whoever thinks that too many spa days is harmful truly doesn't understand the joy of luxury.) I accepted that theory for most of my childhood, and into adulthood. Now, I'm here to undo it. I can mark the day things changed: 15 March, 2020. This was the day Chicago shut down and I lost my job. I went from 5 nights a week of gigs surrounded by money and partiers who were happy to throw it around... To time and silence. My brain and I have never been good friends. I have been reliant on my job (and the sound that comes with it) to quiet the nit-picky and critical voices that constantly tell me I will never be enough. Initially, I turned to strict scheduling and an aggressive creative workload to keep myself at bay. This is because I read an opinion piece from an astronaut that swore the secret to staying sane in space was to have routine. Fortunately, that's worked for me. I've been productive this past year: One book completed, another on the way, 40-some new original songs, self-education on a lot of technology, and building my virtual piano studio to 20 students, among other things. But there is another component for my anxiety and PTSD-riddled brain that is equally responsible for keeping me alive. (Remember? I just figured out I wanted to do that.) And the award for "best supporting coping mechanism" goes to my vices: the social media dives, the Netflix nights, my inability to control my wallet around book sales, and my frustrating love of all things boozy. I am, in my heart, an epicurean. I have been trying to quash that through vigorous personal training sessions, spreadsheets on spending, and calorie trackers for years, but nothing seems to really shrink my proclivity for pleasure. The cards I was dealt in this life haven't been the easiest. Maybe that's why I'm on the hunt for things that make me feel good now. All of that being said, my vices have never gotten in the way of the completion of my daily to-do lists. Maybe that's the balancing point, sort of like the old 'work hard, play hard' slogan. I am not advocating behavior that is life-debilitating or life threatening, I am merely suggesting that we seek a different ratio of responsibility/work and things that make us feel good. I would kindly ask you, reader, to suspend any negative feelings, now more than ever (but always, actually, please) when you see someone acting in a manner that doesn't live up to your standards. Maybe a Rom-Com and a pint of ice cream is the antidote needed to coax someone with depression a few steps further away from the edge of the mental cliff. Perhaps an afternoon spent going through old Facebook photos, reminiscing about all the trouble you got into and laughing about it is the levity you need to get out of bed a few minutes earlier the next day. Do you see what I'm saying? It's heavy, but worth considering. Little things like this, things I would have previously deemed "time-wasters" may actually be key to survival. Take it easy on yourselves, and others. That all being said, it's noon on a Tuesday and I am going to have a (single) glass of wine because the sun is shining and dammit, I like wine! Cheers to the vices! For the last few months I have been streaming on a platform called Sessions Live. In fact, Sessions recruited me for their program. After doing a bit of research, it seemed like an awesome opportunity. Besides being paid to go live, there was a supportive tipping option, I'd have a personal coach, and the most thrilling aspect of the whole thing was that I would be connected with an international audience!
My first stream sported viewers from Egypt, Greece, the Philippines, as well as fellow Americans. I made a little money and had a lot of fun! However, over the course of a few months, Sessions made platform-development coachings less available, changed the price of the tipping currency to reward artists less, and changed their reward system for progress made. It was really disappointing. I had referred friends to Sessions and felt embarrassed to see it change. But the truth of the matter is that it could have been cool. It was cool. And then it wasn't. I'm going to try switching platforms, admittedly, to the platform I was encouraged to settle on nearly a year ago. I'm just stubborn sometimes. This Saturday 3/6/21 from 5-7pm CST I'm going to go live on only Twitch. If you're already on Twitch, I'd love it if you gave me a follow or a subscribe there. Some days I am totally streamed out. Between streaming, teaching, and attending Zoom meetings to socialize or discuss collaborative projects, I get a lot of screen time. I'm staring at a screen right now, and after that I'll probably work on my (second!) book before I go teach for 4 hours and play a few hours of virtual DnD. Someone recommend a good blue light filter! At the beginning of the pandemic, I was so anxious to stream. I didn't like looking at myself in the camera (I did, and still do have a lot of weird nervous ticks). I didn't like being unable to hear audience feedback. It's counterintuitive to everything I've done behind a piano in the glorious 23 going on 24 years I've been playing. I am proud of myself for forging ahead nonetheless and using streaming as a way to stay connected with friends and family, many of whom haven't been able to see me play in years, if ever. I'll probably continue virtual shows even once I'm able to go back to bar work. For those of you who've been watching my shows throughout the past year, I am so grateful for your time, and in many cases, your donations as well. This has been a difficult period for artists, and I know a lot of artists who've changed tremendously because of it, whether it's creatively, in personality, or even in terms of long-term goals and priorities. I feel like a whole new person. I'm more introverted. I get nervous about phone calls and Facetime meetings. I spend most of my free time writing (books and songs) and reading, and I've found I sort of like this lifestyle better. I'm living with myself one day at a time, letting her surprise me, being open to rerouting on this wild white water rafting journey of the mind and soul. The same ol' Cassandra you tolerated thus far will still make an appearance for streaming: Songwriter Sunday at 2pm CST (Restream/All Major Platforms), on Wednesday with John from 7-:830pm CST, and now Saturdays from 5-7 CST on Twitch only! It's worth a try. I hope to see you all there. Until tomorrow, stay safe, stay well, and stay kind. Much love, Cassandra |