Sometimes she sings.

You think about taking singing lessons. Not because you are a real live singer or in a band or ever hope to be but because you love to sing. You like to belt along with whatever is playing in the car or while you’re dusting or in the shower and you want to belt along in tune. You want to know how to hit the right note at the right time and not run out of air or sound and end up frustrated and hating the noise that you’re just so happy to make.

So you get your balls out and book a lesson with a young and talented teacher who here you will call Philip, and you drag yourself mentally kicking and screaming to his studio for your first session. You are sweating like a classy pig, nervous and clammy and lacking in any confidence and just forcing yourself to stay with the discomfort for one hour, just one hour, you fucking will live with this excruciating feeling and stay in this moment because you will never ever learn or be better or leave your awful past behind if you do not do this one small but so very difficult thing.

You go in and you meet Philip and he’s lovely and funny and makes you laugh and makes you coffee and you know right away that he will be a good teacher and he won’t make you feel like a colossal fool but you’re still shaking because you never let anyone see you feel things and do things and you have never opened your mouth and sung in front of anyone ever except when you are massively drunk and clowning about because then it’s not you it’s someone so much funnier and more talented but she can be hidden or excused away in the morning when its all clear and light and nobody is drunk anymore.

Philip asks why you are here and what you want from lessons and you say you have no confidence and you just want to sing and maybe join a choir but you don’t say that you often feel very small and sometimes you sing to yourself and the sound makes you feel powerful and a little bit wonderful and you want to make that feeling bigger because then you will grow with it and that’s all you want in the world, just to feel significant.

And then Philip asks you to sing which of course is why you are there but you don’t want to because it’s too hard and you sweat more and want to cry and you can’t stop thinking about how you look and how you sound but you know that really it doesn’t matter because now it’s only about finding that confidence and making a connection in your head and you must do it or go home and wither away. So you sing. And it’s not good and it’s not bad but it’s a sound and you made it. And now instead of withering away, you bloom.

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About pippa

40-something, yogi, gardener, reader and writer. Not great at any of those things but more than happy to be average. I'm anxious, depressed, chaotic, boring, delighted, excited and often foolish. It's all good. And cake.
This entry was posted in anxiety, Fear, music, singing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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