There’s really nothing like it; singing with those women from Women’s Singing Night. We performed for the second time tonight, this time at the coffeehouse. At its peak, the little place, which normally seats fifteen, held forty audience members and our five singing, shining faces.
It helped that Peg brought a little flask of whiskey. And it also helped that Mel and her husband brought Syrah from the Biltmore Estate wineries. And also that the spotlights on us made it hard to see the crowd. So after a song or two I really just forgot myself and sang with all the ease of a woman hanging laundry, for example, on the clothesline in her backyard.
Except we weren’t just hanging laundry. We were doing quiet, steady work on the human soul. Singing gives permission and takes permission. It opens the floodgates and invites what’s already there to come out, Here I am!
Performing the second time around was easier for me because I was able to take myself less seriously. It’s just singing, I told myself. It’s an offering to other artists, who work so hard on their own creativity that they deserve a chance to escape into another form for a night. Now the task is to apply this mantra to life. It’s just dating. It’s just money. It’s just grad school. It’s just, it’s just, it’s just….just about time to roll-tuck into bed and kiss another day of worry and accomplishments and the sweet, swelling moon goodnight.