Those who knew M,

I cried writing this post. You might want some privacy while reading it.

Or to skip it altogether. *watery smile*

~s

…

So I broke my egg. The painted Easter egg that my friend M made me. The chartreuse Easter egg with the glittery beads. From my friend M who passed away last month.

I was carrying it by it’s little paper clip holder (ironically to move it to a safer, more permanent home) and it slid off the hanger and dropped to the floor.

Before I knew it, before I could try to grab for it. Before I quite understood what was happening, it was on the floor. In pieces.

One of the last things she gave me.

And I cried and cried because I don’t think I can mend it.

And then I (ruefully) laughed — because somewhere in this was a lesson from M about the unexpectedness of change and grief and literally picking up the pieces.

For now I’ve saved the pieces. For now, it’s still too painful to let them go.

“I think community is important.
Especially when it comes to music.”
— Jaleel Shaw, alto saxophonist

…

It’s kind of cool that I keep finding artists who see (and say) what I see. The quote above is from a  post by Shaw on his blog. He goes on to say:

“I think [a sense of community] is one of the first things I found myself learning/experiencing when I began playing music. By performing, I learned how to interact with, not only other musicians, but also with an audience.

I think it’s an amazing way for a group of people to get to know, understand, and trust one another.”

So do I. (*smile*)

“If I’m going to sing like
someone else, then I don’t
need to sing at all.”
— Billie Holiday

…

This takes a while to figure out. (Well, it took me a while.) As we learn to sing, a big part of how we learn is through imitation. And if you sing “out and about” every one wants to know what style you sing and who you sound like. (“So …  who are your influences?”)

More important, when you love to sing, you listen to everyone (and everything), you imitate everyone and you want to be able to do what everyone else can do. Scatting, wailing, bebop or beat box. Tuvan throat singing. (Maybe that’s just me? *smile*)

Singers and songs enchant you. You love everything about them. You want to embody them and so you strive to reproduce them … exactly. And in doing that, something is lost. Your perspective. Your approach. Your unique sound that creates the version of the song that only you can sing.

My former teacher, Judi Vinar, tells students: “Sing a song as if this is the first and last time you’ll ever sing it.” While at first this advice might seem daunting, it’s also empowering. It’s an invitation to figure out what you want to say by singing that song in that moment.

Moral of the story? Sound like you.

(Nobody else does you know. *smile*)