Learning to sing

I am sweating, my body is straight, not stiff as a soldier, but, at my teacher’s suggestion, as if my head were held by a thin thread stretched to the infinity of the sky and my coccyx stowed on the ground. The position is comfortable, and yet I become clammy. There are so many things to think about: opening your mouth to swallow a lemon, attacking the sound without giving a glottis blow, not bending your lungs, not swelling your stomach, widening your diaphragm instead and then forgetting all that, because you just have to sing...

I took my first singing lesson last Thursday. I have already experienced some high emotions there, the first being to see that a few things are enough to free the voice. Obviously, these magical moments are of short duration and do not in any way predict the work that will have to be done. If I have a beautiful voice, it is nonetheless distorted by the practice of choral singing which, to be honest, works wonders of camouflage when you are an amateur. In a choir, you can breathe almost anywhere you want, if you know how to do it, and as long as you blend in with the rest of the group.

Singing alone is more constraining. The nudity is total, the voice is based only on your own trust, your personal energy.

And why, at 53 years old, take singing lessons? Why not? It is a form of adventure, another of those many bottles that are thrown into the sea of possibilities. I go where desire leads me, where melodies are born and die. Living fully is a quest and a pilgrimage.

Mi, fa, sol, doooo...