"Would it be okay if, baby, I sang you a song? Would you listen? ”

Love Songs, Littrell

When people ask what my goal is, my five-year plan, whatever, I know I'm supposed to say something that can fit on a business card. The problem is, like many of you, that I'm walking around with three different cards. And none of them captures anything like an answer to this truly huge question. Besides, the longer I live and the more I learn, I become far more comfortable with huge questions and far less comfortable with simple answers. So, here's what I've got: 

My goal is to live, more and more, every day, into the question"What does it look like for me to become fully, deeply me; fully, deeply alive; fully, deeply engaged in the world; right where I am, with others who are doing the same, today?"

About twelve years ago, when I first started openly trying to do something with the music that has always been in me, I did so because my terror at the thought of being so vulnerable was finally outmatched by my terror of never fully living into myself. So, I compromised. "I'll do this, but I need a new name."

People started calling me Littrell, my surname, in the hell that is 6th grade, and all of the horrors of bullying, rejection, awkward human development, and baby-bird fragility are wrapped up in it for me. Lij, on the other hand, a name I carefully cloaked in symbolism and significance, felt, well, symbolic. And significant.

By day, Lindsay Littrell was a macro social worker running around California fighting for justice. By night, Lij was pouring her heart out at the keys and daring to send those songs out into the world. 

I. Was a super hero.

Lij was what I needed; a security blanket of a life-jacket I could pretend was a cape that helped me jump into the deep end of my own life.

A preacher's kid, my dad baptized me when I was six and the water in the baptismal was too deep for the short legs I've still yet to outgrow, so I had to doggy paddle out into the middle where they had placed a concrete block for me to stand on. After the service was over, standing up front, proudly dripping wet, I watched as congregants passed me by to congratulate my older, taller friends. "I got baptized too!" I kept telling them. They'd pat me on my head like "sure you did, honey" and move on.

I still know the look. On the first day of any of my many undergrad or grad social work classes, during introductions, I sometimes dare to mention that I am also a singer/songwriter, No longer in LA, where that would not be a strange contrast, my Indiana students are kind in their attempts to mask their skepticism.

But isn't the shadow side to the life of a (wannabe) super hero that it resembles voluntary participation in the witness protection program? Unlike the height I have no control over, didn't I do this, keeping others from fully knowing me through the creation of two identities, to myself?

I'm finally ready to admit that this fragmentation is not an answer to my question. So, what does it look like for me to become fully, deeply me; fully, deeply alive; fully, deeply engaged in the world; right where I am, with others who are doing the same, today? 

Right now it looks like taking off the cape. 

My name is Lindsay Littrell. At twelve, I had a perm-gone-way-awry, braces, bad skin, pink glasses and was failing miserably in my first attempt to be my own stylist. I write songs swathed in minor chords, and I love it. I teach full time at University in a social work program in courses like Human Rights, Social Justice and Diversity and I love it. I'm a parent, a partner, a friend, a real girl, and, even when it is hard, I love it. And, most of the time, at 37, I feel, and quite possibly look, as fragile, vulnerable, and awkward as I ever have.

And this is my life.

I'm expanding my site, along with my courage, to share it with you.

My songs are here. My blogs are here. I'm heading into PhD life in the Fall, so soon I'll be updating you with super thrilling academic publications. :)

Want to collaborate on or commission gigs, house shows, songwriting, recording, lectures, dialogues, writing, teaching, research, playdates, vision boards, play lists, dance parties, skate parties, dance-skate parties...? I'm so down to explore these intersections, this manifestation, offline, too, especially. 

And I love it when you write to me. Or come to say hi (and tell me your story) out in the real, wide world. You are the “with others who are doing the same.” You are a part of the answer to my question.

And I am so grateful.

So looking forward to hearing from you, to seeing you, to doing this thing together. Cheering you on until then.

L

PS: I'd love it if you would sign up for my mailing list! You'll get a free download of the re-mastered Love Songs (crank it on good speakers to feel the full effect) and I'll write you a note every now and then. I appreciate you! See below. 

Littrell's First-to-Know Email List

Sign up for the mailing list to get a free download of Love Songs and to stay in the loop. I promise to never share your information with anyone else and only to reach out as often as I might stop by to borrow a cup of sugar, were we neighbors. xx