Sing

My mother sang to me, Brahm's Lullaby, Mockin' Bird, Rock-a-bye Baby, the lullaby from Mary Poppins- Stay Awake, and my favorite-Silent Night- all year long. I sang as a baby as much as I talked, sang myself to sleep at night, long singing babbles. I remember singing Downtown (yes, Petula Clark) with my mother in the kitchen doing dishes. I sang with my church choir, perhaps I was 10, faithful I was, got to sit away from parents- up in the choir loft. I loved it for itself, learning the alto parts, rounds, carols. Being in the Advent processions. Learning with such wonderful people who didn't grade me, but accepted me as one of the group of adults. My only social outlet, and a kind one.

When I went into a theater program, I expected to learn to sing, but it wasn't in the curriculum. I tried to take a sight reading class, but after the first one where phrases like "As you can see..." and "As you already know...." followed by what might as well have been Urdu, I dropped- in despair. After auditioning for HMS Pinafore, humiliatingly, I tried taking private singing lessons, but I had no idea what music to choose, or how to find music, not that I could read it. I could not be heard over the teacher's piano, and it was simply frustrating. With no confidence, I would cry in anger, my throat choking up. I did sing in a show, once. I couldn't find the key by myself, so I talked through the first line to let the piano come in so I could sing the second in the given key. I still cringe at the thought.

The Army, source of innumerable surprizes, was energizing for me because we sang, cadences marching, cadences running. Captain Jack, the one about the Airborne rangers, running all the way to- (wherever you are from) just like this! I shouted and sang myself hoarse, we all did. We sang in the barracks, the tiled latrine was especially resonant. We sang to entertain ourselves. We sang our exhaustion, our loneliness, our anger. We would all be hoarse, and still keep yelling.

I've always learned songs by listening to them, playing them over and over until I learned the words, the tunes came easily. I sang whenever I was alone, or around people who didn't care. I sang for my elderly patients, for children. When I got my job in surgery, I was delighted that many of us sing at work. Oh, there are complaints, but who cares? But I still had a small voice, and although I loved singing when D played guitar, it was difficult, and I got nervous and hesitant, and squeaked.

Then D and I went to the Salt Lake Arts Festival. A group called Yankee Clipper was playing, and they sang what I now know as St. Thomas. I had chills. When they finished, the leader said "This is a Sacred Harp song, if you are interested in this kind of singing, leave your information with me... ." I scrambled for something to write on, and gave it to him. I got the email, I went, I fell in love. Such a welcoming group of people, and that sound. In the center of the square of ordinary folks, was the voice of god transcending all the dualities and illusions. Within a year, I could hear my own voice amid the intense volume. Within two, I could read the music enough to scrape by with untried songs. Now I have a powerful confident voice. Not pretty, but I hit the notes. I don't choke. I sound like I feel.

I can sing now when D plays guitar, and we meet in the notes.