a song offered to the writer

I sing. This is no surprise to those in my inner sanctum (or those driving in the lane near to my driver’s side window.) A joy as immense as the sky is long stretched over Texas bursts from my open lips in the form of matching what is heard and shifting it slightly.

Last weekend at church, I happily stood with the band, my turn in our succession of female singers. The set of music they had given ranged from great beefy songs full of shadowy minor keys and thoughtful lyrics to peppy numbers that made me slap my thigh in succession of the beats. I was ready and eager to sing the set through. Upon remarking how fun a set K had selected for Sunday, some guys walked through the doors, heading toward the stage. K mentioned one of them had written the music for several of the songs. Somehow I felt equal parts anticipation and excitement. The pianist / composer took his place right behind me and I found myself bound up with a rush of adrenaline as this symbiosis of sound began.

There is something magical about singing with the composer leading. And I would also say, there is something to be said for having your way with a song that is different from what the CD dictates or perhaps from the usual harmonies they have come to expect. A spiritual experience is all you can really attempt to use to define the feelings and rush derived from such a coming together.

The composer and I spoke of craft, of writing and singing, of playing and tonality. Both of us love the shadowy bits and interweaving golden threads of hopefulness. Which is kind of like life. Amid the shadowy bits, strands of hope run, cords of joy stand firm, not easily dissuaded from being that anchor that can moor us, giving a center when the ship seems to run aground.

I will say it again. I am grateful for singing. I am grateful for the song. And to the healer of ears, love that it all rises like incense and smoke, joyful. Even when rising from the shadowy bits.

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