"... over our heads will float the Blue Bird singing of beautiful and impossible things, of things that are lovely and that never happen, of things that are not and that should be."-- Oscar Wilde
Wookin’ for wuv in all the wrong places, wookin’ for wuv in too many faces …
When I was 11 years old, I auditioned for the fifth grade play. I was very excited to show off my singing talents (despite the fact that I knew none of the words to the song I was auditioning to sing – Every Breath You Take by The Police). I don’t need to tell you how disappointed I was that I didn’t get that particular solo (even though I was disappointed), because my consolation prize was a different solo: the glamorous single, How much is that doggy in the window?
I don’t remember much about that performance, either, except what I can glean from old photographs.
My point is (yes, I do have one), I’ve forgotten how it felt to get up there and sing before a crowd. Was I nervous? Did my voice tremble? Did my hands shake? Or did I just enjoy singing, as I had done every day of my life up to that point?
Whether I was nervous or not is, I suppose, immaterial. I know that at the very least, I enjoyed it. But at some point between that performance and adulthood, I forgot the joy of singing. Oh sure, I still participated in car sing-a-longs with the family (my sisters and I did a mean rendition of Billy Joel’s For the Longest Time). I still sang in the shower, or in my room while listening to the radio. I sang the lyrics in my piano books – without accompaniment, because I never learned to play chords and could do only a simplistic one-handed melody on the keyboard. When I grew older, I sang in the car … usually alone. To this day, it’s my favourite place to belt out bad notes in a key too high or too low for my range.
Despite the fact that I’d been singing all my life, puberty and adulthood brought with them a monster case of self-consciousness. I became so shy – so terrified – of performance that I refused to join the choir in high school. I refused to try out for anything musical in university (not that there was much to choose from at my small school), and even after university, when I really wanted to just do it, still I allowed my fear to get in my way.
I can’t say that I gave up singing. I never gave up singing. But I lost that ability to sing without awkwardness, to sing without worrying about what others might think. Even around my family, I often found myself lowering my voice so I couldn’t be heard above the radio. And when the radio wasn’t playing? Forget it. I might hum it in my mind, but I would never sing a song aloud … not if I thought someone might be listening.
About a month after I came up with my 40th year plan, I started remembering some of my old dreams – the longings of my youth. One of these longings was to improve my voice, to learn proper technique. It was a wish that had gone unfulfilled because I always found reasons why it wasn’t practical (because you know, the words ”I’m afraid” just weren’t in my vocabulary). It’s too expensive! I’m too old to start! My voice isn’t good enough!
But maybe ... maybe ... I was ready for change. Maybe I was ready to start my journey just a little bit early. Maybe I was already eager to step outside of my box. Maybe I was simply tired of not doing something I desperately wanted to do. So, in a moment of strength and determination, I decided to go for it. I researched voice coaches, found one who seemed to be a good fit for me, reached out to her, and ended up having an amazing conversation with a woman who had been through something quite similar to my own experience. Kismet.
My goal was to learn how to sing better. I didn’t really know what that meant at the time, but I figured it had something to do with breathing and vocal technique. I vaguely remember telling my coach that I wanted to feel confident enough about my voice that I’d be able to get up in front of people and belt out a tune (and belt it well).
For a year, we worked at it. Sometimes with more gusto than others, I do admit. There were moments when I wondered whether I was truly committed to the process, and then I’d remember that I wanted to be able to sing. In front of other people. Maybe even on a stage, in an actual performance. This was usually enough for me to push past my laziness or excuse-making.
I chose a song.
I prepared the song.
And this past July, ready or not, I walked up on a stage in front of 65 people … and I sang.
I won’t go into all the things I did wrong – from a technique perspective, there were many. I won’t go into the nerves (egads, were there nerves). I won’t go into detail about my loss of appetite or the tears that nearly kept me from getting up there. After all, there’s no point focusing on the negative! Bottom line: I had made a commitment, and I knew that I’d never forgive myself if I chickened out.
Okay, so I did tell my audience not to look at me. Weak moment! Some of them were kind enough to oblige me, but most just laughed, assuming I was joking. I wasn’t. Sigh. Oh well. As my father says, “You can’t control other people. You can only control yourself.”
So … I controlled myself, as best I could. I took a deep, trembling breath, avoided eye contact, focused on a point at the back of the room … and just sang. I even hit most of the notes (I think). In the end, I received an amazing show of support – a standing ovation, a few tears, and lots of hugs. I can’t thank my audience enough for sharing in the experience, for embracing me wholeheartedly and giving me a safe place where I could be vulnerable.
Did I learn something? Oh, sure. I learned that I could get up in front of people and sing, despite all the voices in my head that might try and tell me otherwise. I learned that I can sing … and with feeling ... even when my nerves make my voice tremble and my body shake from head to toe. But really, the biggest lesson I learned – from the feelings I’ve managed to process so far – is just how amazing it feels to know I’ve done something I had, quite honestly, begun to believe was impossible.
Will I do it again anytime soon? I can’t say. I know that I’m eager to do something new with my voice … maybe join a singing group, or tackle a type of music I haven’t tried. Jazz? Celtic? Opera? Okay, maybe not opera. I know my own limitations.
The point is, I’m ready to take another step forward. This performance was one of the biggest items on my list this year, and now that it’s done, I’m … overwhelmed. I haven’t processed it, to be honest. I know that it has resulted in a fundamental shift – in the way I see myself, in the way I see my world. I can’t articulate what that shift might mean, and I’ve no idea where my path now leads. But I’m on it, and will continue to follow it wherever the journey might take me.
