Over the summer, while in muggy Massachusetts dorm-living for the month, I began to listen to music again. There’s a piece of deprivation that can be about things you may not ordinarily peg, like sensations: scent, touch, sound.
When I drove to work last year, during my hour+/- commute I would generally listen to talk radio, getting some “grown-up” ideas into my head especially at the end of a day of disseminating information. Yet, I’ve noticed, I’ve been putting the music on as I drive this week instead.
In the dorm, I played the soundtrack to RENT on full blast (just like in my true college days!), “The Song of Angry Men” from Les Mis (over and over), and Norah Jones for a mellow roll. It was surprising to me that I was craving music. And yet whenever I begin to listen to music again (as this is a common, long-horizon pattern), I feel like the lake diver coming up for air—sucking oxygen into my chest with relief and exhilaration and something like surprise.
I chatted with my friend the piano player the other day and, when he returns from a trip, we’re going to get together and start planning the set list for our duo for the artists’ salon on October 7th (did I mention that’s my birthday? I did, I’m just stoked).;)
I think it’s two 15-minute sets, so that’ll be about 4 songs each set, and he’s totally down to do whatever feels good. I’m thinking Norah Jones/Alicia Keys inspired works. Something languid and liquid and feminine.
When I begin to sing again, it’s the awakening of a facet of my soul that in its drowsing I forget contains everything about love, aliveness, and power. When I begin to sing again, it’s like falling back in love with myself: “Oh, there you are. I had kinda forgotten you were made of glitter magic.”
The arrival back at self reinforces these pieces are here all the time, but I guess a question (fear) becomes, if I see this all the time, will it become too familiar? Will my continued engaging in something that brings me to life eventually become something that is dull?
Fortunately, not even I believe that bullsh*t.
Sing on, singer.