As I mentioned in my previous post, starting tomorrow I am going to go on a two-week fast from the ear-candy of Mraz. I decided to start on Friday, frankly, because I wanted to be able to binge on the music today while at the office. So, I am currently…
A Matter of Tuning
A tricky thing, inspiration is. Take for instance, music as a muse. On a good day, music spurs something within, evoking an expression of creativity. I remember one night in college listening to the Goo Goo Doll's "Acoustic #3" on repeat for what seemed like hours while I painted. Pretty…
"Do you sing?"
A few nights ago — or mornings, rather — Jason Mraz met me in my subconscious again. Even as my husband spooned me in the stolen moments before the alarm went off, I couldn’t help but savor the interactive screenplay in my head.
In my dream, I was at an outdoor concert, one where the parking lot was a field constrained by woods. It was nearing the end of a clear summer day. Near the woodline, I could feel the cool breath of evening, but still, the air was heavy with the heat and humidity of late July in Pennsylvania.
The concert was nearing an end, and Jason had just “disappeared” from the stage though the show continued; most of the crowd was still at the stage. I, however, was in the parking lot. I had missed the very end of Jason’s set in hopes of catching up with him at the bus. Sure enough, as he sprinted to the bus, somehow without an entourage or gaggle of starstruck fans, I was able to catch him. He had a huge, black afro wig in hand, presumably to disguise himself as he made his great escape. (At this point, we could hear that the crowds were on their way.) I asked if he had a minute before he got on the bus. He obliged, stressing though, that it needed to be quick. I introduced myself as being a huge fan, and thanked him for his influence and inspiration.
He was sweet and thanked me. And then he asked:
“Do you sing?”
I started babbling, “No, I mean, I was in chorus in high school, but not because I was any good, just because they needed people for the ensemble.”
As I did what I do in real life, talking myself in circles, he slipped the hilariously conspicuous “disguise” head piece onto his head.
And right about then, my alarm went off.
I hit snooze and tried to go back to dreamland. Alas, it was gone. All but that line:
“Do you sing?”
That’s really stuck with me. Even as I babbled in my dream, I knew I wasn’t answering the question my subconscious-posing-as-mraz asked.
***
As a kid at Sts. Peter & Paul Catholic school, Mrs. Zana, our music teacher once told the class, “When you sing, it’s like praying twice.” I didn’t know then that she was paraphrasing, St. Augustine: “Qui cantat, bis orat” or”To sing once is to pray twice.” Years and years later, Mraz raised the point again in his “1000 Mother******s.”
The sentiment has stuck with me along with Psalm 100:1: “Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all ye lands.” Take those along with the image of God as Loving Father, braid those three thoughts, and you have one of one of my deepest “faith roots.” It makes me smile to hear someone at church singing loudly off-key. (Often I’m just hearing myself.) It makes me think of how much I love to hear my children (neither of whom could be mistaken for members of the Von Trapp family) sing with abandon. I think their songs are something like what we give to God, when we sing with our hearts.
But I noticed that I haven’t really been singing lately. I mean, yes, I sing at church, along with the radio, and every word of “We Sing We Dance We Steal Things.” But I haven’t really been singing with intent, with my voice or otherwise. Really, my life has been a lot of humming lately.
I want to change that. I’m just not sure what song to sing.
So now, I ask you:
“Do you sing?”
Freedom, creatively speaking
Last October on my way to a poetry reading, stopped at a red light, I saw one of the coolest cars ever. OK, so maybe the car itself wasn’t so cool. It was a primer-grey, boxy boat, maybe an Oldsmobile or Buick circa 1989. (I know this because I’ve owned…
The middle: where to start
What if you knew you were immortal … as long as you never fell asleep? What if you knew that the second you hit REM, you would leave your fleshy confines, never to return?
To what lengths would you stay awake? Would you “not go gently into that good night”? Or would you do what you could to tie up loose ends before welcoming the sleep to end all sleep?
At one point in my life, there was no question that I would welcome, not fight Dylan Thomas’ “good night.” But since then, I have celebrated a few more birthdays, married my (somewhat unlikely) soulmate, and been blessed with two amazing children. I’ve managed a handful of creative accomplishments that — noteworthy or not — I am proud of. All of these things are attachments of sorts, “loose ends” I can’t tie up, no matter how much time I might be given.
But still there are days I live for sleep.
I don’t know where I’m going with this.
…
A week ago, my maternal grandfather, Grandpap R. passed away. Prior to his death, he had been in the ICU about 10 days, including a few days of heavy sedation — meaning he was unconscious.
…As I write this, “Details in the Fabric” is playing.
“Hold your own,
know your name,
and go your own way
everything will be fine…”
know your name,
and go your own way
everything will be fine…”
…
So I went up to PA this past Wednesday & Thursday for the funeral. As strange as it might sound, it was probably the “happiest” funeral I have ever been to. That’s not to say all eyes were dry. But it was full of laughter as well. It was a family reunion.
God, I hope it’s not our last.
It was wonderful, really. I think 14 of the 16 grandchildren made it in (in addition to all 7 of his children), many of whom I haven’t seen in years. It’s strange and amazing that we’re all part of the same family. Really, in many cases we’re more different than we are the same. But then you notice his jawline, her laugh, the way the three of them stand just like their mother who got it from Grandma. … And somehow we’re all family again.
…
I think this is the first time I’ve really cried yet about this. Not that I’ve been holding back or in or anything. But I’ve been holding up and keeping busy. Not as a defense, but as a side effect of life. Even up there at the funeral, I took our youngest (and only him) since he could fly free on my lap, so I was preoccupied with him, I guess. At the viewing, it was all foreign and strange to me. The body in the casket was a wax man with too much make-up. I had absolutely no emotional attachment to him. But to the right was their wedding picture. And I got choked up over that, but that was it.
Mom pointed out that difference (between his as opposed to my grandmother’s death 18 years ago) is the difference between a full, long life well lived and one cut too short.
…
As a point of public note, I request that no roses or chrysanthemums be included in any arrangements for my funeral when that comes. Wait, no. Stick with the no chrysanthemums (mums are ok, but those big ones, no), but let’s restrict the roses to the pretty, less fragrant mini roses: the smell of roses says funeral to me. I hate it. As soon as I opened the door to the funeral home the first time there, it hit me, like a blast of hot air from inside a car that’s been sitting in the July sun all day.
I prefer lilacs be sent in lieu of roses.
I prefer donations to the pro-life charity of your choice be sent in lieu of flowers in general.
No, I’m not quite dead yet. But we never know when this information could actually be relevant.
…
Ever just feel like screaming out of frustration? I mean, I feel like I’m grinding my gears and spinning my wheels. I feel like there’s so much I’m supposed to do with my life. I feel like there’s something big out there I’m supposed to be a part of. But I don’t know what or where it is. How does one work toward a goal she can’t define?
“Go your own way.”
…which would be …?