One Day I Will Sing on Stage

Last night at 7:15 pm in front of my very own blue house, Jen Hajj (from CA) and Dave Hawkins (from OH) set up mikes and amplifiers to sing to our neighbors, themselves and the mosquitoes. Jen's soprano notes rose high and sweet on the topics of birds and friendship. Dave has a more surly personality, with stories of drinking and history and the drama of daughters and granddaughters who break your heart in a good way.

We were maybe 25 sprawled over a quarter acre and I wondered if it was worth their time. Maybe they would be twiddling their thumbs or practicing or they just know that singing is about each person, and finding the one that connects with their mission, their gift, their energy. Dave's 50 years shows in his 7 albums, grammy nominations, itune sales and his regular pitch for support.

My sons and I lay in bed, then each kept saying, "I can't see, I can't see," and we had to sit up and look down from the bedroom window until the last song ended. I believe they would have gone all night if we had let them, but it became to dark to see.

When it was quiet, my son said, "You go to lessons, right?" When I nodded he said, "You want to sing like them when you grow up," and I said, "I hope so!" I want to sing out loud to the night, but do I have the skill to bear my soul and ask for attention. They wanted us to know their history, to agree with their choices, for us to know them intimately, and somehow we did, without even knowing their names. I don't know if I can believe people will listen to my stories for as long as the audience did, about raptor bird obsessions and song writing classes and drunk audiences at football games, but I imagine I will try.

My story is. . . I was a lonely child, fighting for food with my six siblings. My school lunches were dry homemade brown bread peanut butter sandwiches with a gushy apple that I almost threw up as I tried to get down. When I met my husband, he appeared as loyal and grounded and he participated with me in my story. As I consider options, write, sing, run a marathon, build a community house, help with my dad's wedding, apply to MFA's, teach, parent, or sit on my hands, I sense myself grabbing onto things to find safety, while also longing for an extreme adventure.

I am challenged in the daily tasks to find meaning in folding laundry or scrubbing the bathtub. I live with people, I am responsible to meet basic needs, but I care most about my family being showered with God's love/knowing. I watch my friends adventure in the city or backcountry and though I pretend they are crazy, I envy their determination to live on some edge, where they must fully focus on the task ahead. In this season, wanting those adventures in nature and urban living become distractions (though later, I hope to lead others their), as my task is that of being where I am and listening to the rain. I am the observer of kids changing heights, their facial expressions, their words, their daily epiphanies about themselves and the world and I want them to experience God within the spaces we dwell, be content within their own skin, not matter what the circumstances are elsewhere.

So we lay down and listen to sounds, laughs, and then run circles up our hill around the raspberries and back down, imagining ourselves to be dinosaurs and lions. We take pauses to ponder the head sized hornet's nest just past our front porch, that we have played under for months, without seeing, knowing that someone has sprayed it for us, and its inhabitants are dead. Maybe I will write a song about the hornets, or the music or the kids, or maybe the Blue Heron that soared just out out of our reach, showcasing it's long slender neck.