Sometimes I trap myself in a box.
Sometimes I step into one.
Either way, soon enough something in me
Will be scratching at the walls,
Kicking in the corners,
And sometimes having a meltdown at the door
By the door that I’ve locked, don’t remember how to open,
Or am afraid to actually walk through.
For the past three months,
I’ve been putting myself in a small box of a different sort,
My voice box,
Through voice lessons.
I had a vision of a grand entrance warmed with spotlights,
Belting it out from my balls,
and shifting everyone in their seats.
The Show-woman in me bowing to the bed of roses tossed at my feet.
One day, she might be in her glory,
And this adventure
Is for the quiet One,
The One who serenades a shower head
With flaming lips
But snuffs the fire when someone walks into the room.
The one who is unsure of what living things might escape
If her cage opens,
If her jaw drops,
If I allow her silliness to make sound again
And hold it all with serious heart.
We do a lot of simple, corny drills
To warm up and release the tension
That inhibits the vibrations from expressing
The fullness of their vibes.
I’m learning more than how to hit the high notes.
In these weekly, mini workshops with my voice center stage,
I’m experiencing how I back away
Out of fear that I won’t sound right on the money.
How it feels to strain versus claim.
The heaviness of half-assing.
The delight of making ridiculous faces.
The tones of my heart and head.
I’m sensing the power and joy
that comes when all my energy is
in the room,
In the sound,
In my body.
I’m reminded that I don’t want to sing for sound’s-sake,
Live for the motions,
I want to tremble.
I’m discovering my little wall-flower
Who slips lunch money to the saboteur
Isn’t a rock star after all…
She’s a sultry chanteuse.
Which, partly explains
Why she loves staying in the dark,
Except for the crystal teardrop sconces
casting shadows on her cheek bones.
Singing for those who
Descend dingy, damp staircases
To hear angels.