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Find the string of life
That thrums within you
And play your music –
Bold or timid
Loud or soft,
It is unlike any other
Ever heard
Yet
As eternal
And familiar
As the beat that drums
Inside all living
Chests.
For The Daily Post
For all who sail
Across the sky
On stormy sea
To be near to
To be free
May you be.
For The Daily Post
This brand new, amazing rendition of John Lennon’s “Imagine” is salve on humanity’s self-inflicted wounds of separation. It is a celebration of tone, tune, and the powers of creative resonance and connection that make humanity so incredibly precious and so vulnerably strong.
We can all make choices: To connect or turn away, to embrace or spurn, to accept what makes us into a tapestry of humanity … or to force false borders and invent pseudo-hierarchies of power or worth.
We can weave patterns of light or dig trenches of fear. We can live harmony or feed chaos.
This much I know: Humanity’s beauty is in its humaneness. In all forms of Kind.
For The Daily Post
“I want my parents to see Billy Elliot.” The boy and I were discussing Marco Polo and history of Europe in the 1200s, looking at sources from his textbook and encyclopedias. The remark seemed out of context, but whatever the connection or association, I was curious to know more. The boy’s eyes rested on me. Serious. This was no fly-by thought.
“Oh?” I commented, “I heard good things about it. What about it do you want them to see?”
He paused. Fiddled with his pen, checked the time. “I’m not sure,” he mumbled, fiddled more. “Actually …” he looked up, “I want to play the cello.”
The boy has been taking guitar lessons this past year. An athletic guy, his parents thought he was better suited for sports, which he is indeed very good at and loves doing. They were not against the guitar lessons, though they admitted hoping that those were only a passing internet music-video inspired fad.
I just listened. There was more there. I was sure.
“I like playing guitar, but I really love cello. Only thing is .., it’s for like, classic music …” his eyes met mine and then he looked away, stared at his lap. “For orchestra and stuff, you know … nerd stuff.”
“Hmm,” I mused. “People use cellos in other kinds of music, but I get what you’re saying, even though I never thought of cello players as nerds.”
He blushed. “I don’t think they are. I think its beautiful music …” his blush deepened. “I don’t want my dad to think I’m a nerd or like … soft.”
My impression of the father was of a caring, all American, be-my-boy’s-best-buddy kind of dad. They often went to sports events together, traveled to see their favorite teams, bonded over tailgate parties. The boy loved it. And had other interests now, too …
“So … Billy Elliot …” I noted gently.
“Yeah … so they understand I want this, even if it’s kind of different. Is it kind of different?” he looked up, hopeful for denial.
“Personally, I don’t think so. I think music is a lot like a sport–you have to practice, you have to keep at it, you have to love it to do it, and it can also be very satisfying. It is even often kind of a team sport, with players needing to coordinate and work together …”
He gave me the almost-teenage lopsided grin that tells adults that they were doing an okay job in cheering up but their game was up and the comparison was barely passing. “Try telling that to my dad …” he chuckled, not quite mirthfully. He sighed. “My guitar teacher said I have good finger skills,” his voice was hesitant but a warble of pride was evident. “He let me try a cello that he plays sometimes. It felt so right …”
His whole face lit up when he said that.
“So … I want my parents to see Billy Elliot. I told my grandmother. She said she’d get them tickets … for next week.” He pushed on then, his speech suddenly urgent, rapid, “you see, there’s this summer camp, and it is for music … and I can do cello there. Not all summer, just three weeks … I can still go to the other camp, because that one’s only through July … and the music camp is in August … so I could still do both …”
I smiled.
“… they still have openings–my grandma checked–but we have to register, like, now … so … I want them to see Billy Elliot.” He chuckled, a bit tensely, “I’m thinking, it is a lot less nerdy than dancing … so maybe my dad will be, like, relieved that it’s ‘only’ the cello … My grandma said she’ll back me up …”
“I will, too,” I grinned. “Take the leap. Go for it. Try it out. If this is what you really love, then it is wonderful to find it. And if not, then you will still have tried something new that felt worth exploring.”
“Exploring … right,” he grinned. “Back to Marco Polo, huh?”
She never stops singing.
She sings when she’s playing. She sings in the stroller, the high-chair, the booster, on the carpet or floor. She sings in the sandbox. She sings on the swing. She sings in bed every morning. Come evenings she’s singing to sleep. She sings in the bathtub. She sings when she’s walking. She hums with food in her mouth. She’s heard singing while deep in a dream.
She sings top chart melodies. She sings the same line for a week (drives her mama nuts, but it is what it is … all she can do is introduce another song and hope it will be picked up on a whim).
She hums nursery rhymes, sings odd jumbled phrases. She repeats parts of jingles and mangles their lines. She mashes music from a hundred places and switches song to song without missing a beat. She makes up nonsense rhymes unselfconsciously. She fills in random words as she goes.
She does not quite keep time or pitch. She does not really carry a tune.
Not one would expect her to do so. She’s not quite three-years-old, after all.
So who cares if she pauses in imperfect rhythm or raises volume in an off-pitch pipsqueak dramatic flair. She’s adorable. She lives life utterly happy. She finds music flowing in every moment and in every action. She listens, she follows, she sings.
Her humming brings smiles to the lips of strangers. It melts the hearts of loved ones. It has people raise an eyebrow in amusement and meet the eyes of others in a shared moment of delight.
She’s a wonder. In her quiet content singing she’s a teacher, too:
For can you find the music that surrounds you? Do you listen? Can you hear?
It is flying on the molecules of oxygen around us. It is weaving in and out of every atom. It bonds the flow of leaves upon the water, it jingles in the rustling of branches waiting patiently for spring. It hums the breath of every living thing.
May she never lose touch with her singing. May her inner music flow unhindered and her heartbeat always rhyme with joy. And may those who wish to keep on singing, always find their song.
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