My posts are few and far between, given that life is a full time job and parenting makes it even fuller, but even with the busy times I have to sit back and enjoy the thoughts and experiences I’m enjoying. The sweet whispering sound of my daughter inventing music, narrating her day in singsong and suddenly shutting her mouth tight when she observes me listening attentively to her. How is that she senses my keen ear so astutely and looks at me with her piercing, knowing eyes.
Yes, mommy, I know it’s you wanting to hear me, but this song is for us alone and for this moment only, and you cannot share it.
But she must know that it is in her blood to sing. So she must sing loudly and for everyone around and to do her best to bring joy – or at least a smile, to a person’s day with music. I got to rediscover a beloved piece of me that had truly hidden in the background when parenthood paired with a demanding full-time job began.
Ah, sweet singing, choral music.
I used to tease someone I love very much who constantly wants to join fitness programs and thrives in the camaraderie it brings him – the friendships, the collective energy of working out in a group. But my secret in my workout routines is that I HATE working out as a group, I can’t stand the encouragement, I can’t stand the competitiveness of the various people; I can’t stand when someone cheers me on while I’m lifting a barbell. And let’s face it, I can’t really lift a barbell right now anyway.
But get me in a group of singers and the joy of the group is the THING. Fellow singers lift me up with a collective energy. Being in a choir brings me back to so many points in my life where I have enjoyed the thrill of overtones, the explosive joy of triple forte and the mystery of mezzo piano. Learning what a line is and avoiding the “padiddle in the middle of the night.” (Thanks, Jim Marvin, for that one).
So now I have joined an absolutely lovely choir – Te Deum – with which I’ll be enjoying my first performance in a few weeks. And I go to rehearsal after long, exhausting days in which I’ve barely finished charting and swallowing down a sandwich in order to drive over to practice. My eyelids are droopy, but I go in that church to sing. And I’m surrounded by a whole group of people who do this – many of whom do this for their livelihoods. They’ve come to the evening with preparedness and verve. And even if we’re a little squeaky when we get started, suddenly we’re all in groove and in sync and it’s just so darned fun.
The 2.5 hours passes as if in the blink of an eye, and I chat with my new colleagues to learn more about them prior to us all going back out in the cold night to our daily lives. And I feel that piece of myself waking back up that has given my life such a wonderful spark. And I get back home after the family is asleep, house dark. I’m chilly and sleepy but not quite ready for bed.
So I write, just a little bit.
Then I think of my little daughter and all the adventures she will have. Oh the many artistic pieces of her life that are just now starting to bring her enjoyment. It fills me with curiosity to think of what influence these extremely early experiences will have on her. What will jazz her and what teeny piece of all the things she enjoys – singing, dancing, humming, scribbling and drawing, learning to read . . . .which of these will make her tick? Or will it be something entirely different? And what will she remember of all this her mom is doing?
I can only hope she won’t mind that I kept singing, even if it brought mommy home late from a job that already brings her home late. But I think she’ll understand. I hope she already does.