My Life in Song

"Singing is better than sex!", Mom exclaimed giddily, about the same age I am now. I don't remember the context, but it was probably on the way to Wednesday night choir practice at our Lutheran Church. I remember feeling a bit of an "ew" factor along with a sense of disappointment. What did that say about sex? Wasn't that supposed to be an ecstatic expression of love and longing and passion?

I cannot remember a time when singing was not a part of my life. The endless summer between high school and college, my sister, a church friend and I lit a bonfire in the darkness at Alki Beach and sang together. Passersby would stop and join us to listen or sing along, asking us what choir we were a part of, surprised that we weren't there in an official capacity.

In the early days of our relationship, when Trent and I were just friends, as he played Magic in the dorm lounge, I would hang out in his room, singing Bread; Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young; America; The Beatles; or Simon and Garfunkle. With the door open, the hall echoed with sound and I swore the acoustics were better in his room than in mine.

Singing is one of my "can't nots".  I sing quietly as I walk to the bus stop and blare out songs suitable to the day of the week and weather as I pedal my folding bike down the frontage road on the way to work. Mondays are devoted to The Bangles or The Mamas and the Papas, nearly every Tuesday is Ruby Tuesday and Friday is saved for The Cure.  Actually, so are Wednesdays and Thursdays, unless there is a "good day, sunshine" or "raindrops keep falling on my head". I firmly believe that the world would be a better place if we lived in a musical or were part of a culture that spontaneously burst into song.

I've now had two jobs where the schedule kept me from my Thursday night choir rehearsals. Neither lasted longer than six months. If I can't sing with others, I feel like merely a shadow of myself, a muted imposter.

As a teen, my siblings and I were sometimes embarrassed to sit next to my mom in church. She would sing with such an earnest expression, it looked as though she were sharing a piece of her soul. Now, in the parent's ultimate revenge, I have become my mother. "I love watching you sing," shared one of the sweet elderly women at church. "I can tell you feel so much. You make me feel so much." Perhaps music really is "an ecstatic expression of love and longing and passion".