The richness of the moment
I keep singing, went out last night, happy with my class. I don’t know if I’m really making progress, but this learning is in the air of my time, fitting very well in this season of my life.
However, my teacher remarked to me yesterday that I didn’t seem quite there that I wasn’t getting much excited or that my voice was off. I suggested that I fight, and it’s true, against a cold, or against the viruses that are running around, that I was a little dizzy. He replied that I should take advantage of this imbalance to move forward. I laughed. If you only knew, Mr. Professor, how a synchronous ocean moves in me with vertigo, happiness, and anguish.
I started reading Phi from the handsome and articulated Tononi. Is it precisely synchronicity if my teacher tells me about Antonio Sacks (Musicophilia) when this author appears on the cover four of Tononi’s book? Did Vincent simply go to the Amazon page on my Facebook profile yesterday and see that he will recognize this author? I don’t know, I like to play with coincidence.
My teacher repeated to me yesterday that every note, even in exercise and vocal work, must be sung as if it were of the utmost importance. Didn’t this lady Carel, in her book Illness, say the same thing, as Buddha had previously taught, that the present moment is the only one that matters since it is both the past and the future, which are only inventions woven by consciousness?
It is true that, when we focus on this mysterious moment, everything becomes more explicit, more innocent, more terrible, genuine, honest, cruel, and peaceful. I indeed found my chorister friends well scattered last Tuesday. I wanted to express to them what I felt when I sang, I tried to tell them that if they gave themselves a little more (what they can sing in fear!), their voice would do beautiful things.
-- You have to be quiet, especially not to say anything, don’t you? commented Vincent to whom I was telling the thing.
-- We must be silent, I could have answered honestly because I am not sure of anything.
Vincent would undoubtedly have grimaced with disagreement, while smiling, with that air of saying something he has thought long and hard about.
-- Well, no, you found something, I think.
It is true... Even if I am far from having reached even the first step of a real learning experience, I rediscover, in these singing lessons, the certainty of being well in flesh and alive. I have now a willingness not to remain silent, to do so without delay, and without the approval of others. I am certainly waiting for an answer from a publisher, I am undoubtedly jealous when I see on TV this publisher who has refused my manuscript. I am what I am, sickly to express myself. I wait, indeed... and I sing, I set up my antennas.
I am just an atom in the universe, a small magnetic field, a simple, barely volcanic note. No wonder I’m so dizzy because anything seems possible to me.
Winter is coming, it’s only a passage. My happiness comes, I give thanks for the present moment, because I cannot pray otherwise.
I hum as Rose does in Les Mailles sanguines. If you don’t understand, you have to do like the cicada and the ant. Sing and work.
My teacher gave me another piece to learn. Come away, death. Singing or being in psychotherapy is pretty much the same thing.
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