I returned to a vintage theater where a mysterious play had recently been shown. It was after hours. It was dark inside, but I could still make out the red carpet between the theater seat aisles and the red velvet stage curtains. It seemed like the ghosts of the characters were still around; their movements on the stage and bellowing lines were like whispers. It was quiet and I was alone, so I felt free to take the stage as my own.
I started singing out to no one, minus the sound of my voice booming through the emptiness. As soon as I was in a zone, I had a buoyancy about me. I could lightly press my toes down as if to ballet point, and this would propel me to float almost to the ceiling. I kept doing it over and over because it kept tripping me out how cool it was. The singing was the lift-off, and my silence would descend me back to the stage. When I finally exhausted myself of this hysterical joy and left the theater, I realized there had been a few people seated in the very far back all along. As I walked the downtown street back to my car, I found myself terribly self-conscious over what they saw me do and what they heard; how I wish I never knew anyone was present.
I was propped up by pillows on one of the beds in a hotel room resting my voice and hiding out from those gathered outside of my room in the remaining suite. They were rowdy and drinking and celebratory while I was trying to nurse my sore throat back to a semblance of smoothness with hot tea and steam. I was scheduled to perform this evening and the truth is, I hadn’t been singing at all. Not my own music; not along with any playlists; not chord warm-ups. Something rebellious had stirred up in me in the last month and my voice had literally dried up. I was not going to cancel but I was nerve-wracked that I’d be a disaster and not be able to hit my own high notes. This served me right, I thought, because my desire to do this had been drying up as well. Sometimes there is this visceral delineation where you can no longer do the thing, like a switch has been turned. The job is no longer tolerable; the relationship is unbearable; the clothes are uncomfortable; the food is unpalatable. Hard and fast change. No remorse. You have changed.
Often things change for us without having to make a concerted effort or decision. Procrastination isn’t just for perfectionists; it can be a necessary stalling tactic.
~~~
It’s bizarre to think how quickly this past year flew by for me as I’ve essentially been dealing with an illness since February. (diagnosed in April) Like, my whole year. It’s a blur. I’ve been coasting along. Coasting along sounds like the most boring way to go about things, but hey, that’s also being human. We are, after all, simply made up of our routines and habits. And what’s a year in the grand scheme of things? I gave up on the resolution setting years ago, except for easy wins like ‘bake a chicken potpie from scratch’ or ‘outsource more household labor.’ I can be forgiven for not wanting this next year to look anything like the last. I can also be forgiven for my severe self-centeredness: my health and wellness at the expense of almost all else. Despite the trial of merely getting through each day and taking each day as it comes, it’s also not a bad way to approach things. As long as the foundations are set like job, family, and home, this can provide a little space for spontaneity, impulsivity, and surprise. I will get that back. I will get my life back. Things are moving at a snail’s pace, but inevitably.
The reason I began this post with two recent dreams centered on my singing is because it dawned on me a while ago how I haven’t even listened to music in ages. What was once my life (singing) and inspiration (instruments) and motivation (dancing), I have completely checked out of. Now it mostly annoys me or makes me nervous or it’s distracting or I loathe the insufferability of it. I will always loathe country music and most jazz, especially big band. I do not open Youtube clips of anything musical you text me. Something has switched. I’m not in the mental place for it. Dancing though, is my body and my movement and my breath. In this way, I will return to music. But also, it’s ok for things to change, and for things to change drastically; especially who we think we are or the stories we’ve been telling ourselves about ourselves. What is true? What is time?
Happy New Year!
*painting called Full Moon in Mumbai by an unknown artist as part of an advert for Mumbai Gallery Weekend later in January