There was a time when I did a lot of singing. It feels like it was in another life. Wild how your days can become compartmentalized between the closed doors of seasons. It can feel like a dim corridor, walking through and considering the thresholds of days long gone. Some doors I dare not broach. Some doors I press my ear to and listen for a summoning.
The thing about doors and seasons is that they are divine. They require invitations. Even if I dared to darken the doorway, it doesn’t mean it would open up to me. Besides, forced entry is devoid of honor and love. I’d simply be an intruder within a space not meant for me yet or any longer. I suppose we can rob ourselves this way.
Regarding singing… It’s sacred. It’s air and words and creative power, and it lands heavy on the soul of the listener. It’s no secret that I value words and messages, but singing them is a higher degree of intimacy. To me, anyhow. Sharing your heart takes maddening courage. Singing your heart is like doing it naked. That’s why so many are caught in the dragnets of their favorite artists: they connect and process deeply through their words and melodies. Music is a method and medium. It’s a tool and even a weapon. Especially worship. I don’t want to take its power for granted.
My voice has gone through several changes through the years. It’s been boisterous and zealous, chock-full of fire. It’s been broken and timid, humbled beyond utterance. I even lost my voice for a time. It was a black hole of unarticulated angst. I think this happens when other voices come in and hijack our melody. They steal the song of our hearts.
I’m listening at the door that is serenading me from the other side. There’s a heap of hesitation I have to step over before I can enter. A disrobing of pretense and self-protection that must be checked beforehand. It’s a room that has been built into the foundation of my life so I know it’s mine to inhabit, but I feel like a stranger here. It’s a bit like stepping into your childhood bedroom as a grownup. Nothing has changed but for yourself. The songs of my youth seem juvenile and small now. They don’t fit me any longer. My experiences have grown me in ways I both cherish and despise. Yet, those lullabies still hold water. Still hold real estate. They carried me through times and places long gone, and are still hummed quietly today.
Maybe the hum will eventually become a word, then a climbing verse and cascading chorus. Maybe that door will open itself to me, or perhaps I simply find the nerve to check the knob. It’s there, though. Whatever remains is right there.