When my nephew was three, or four, he had not yet subscribed to the social pressures of carrying a tune. He knew he loved music. He knew he loved his grandmother, my mother. He didn’t know that her piano teacher told her she was wasting her parents’ money, and that she grew up, without the confidence of a voice. But she had one. And within the unjudging paneled walls of her apartment on Jefferson Street, he would turn up the radio, and shout with all of his joy-filled heart, “Sing, Mamma! Sing!”
So I sing. Am I good at it? If you mean do I love it, do I do it often?… then yes. If it is judged by some other standard, then, I guess, I don’t know. But why would it be judged? I’m singing. It’s like if you asked me, are you good at breathing? I sing. I sing, I sing, and I sing. I think, I hope, I want to sing because I’m grateful. I’m so grateful that I get to sing. That I get to sing alone. That I get to sing with others. That I get to hear it. That I get to feel the joy in my heart, my throat, and then in the trees. Joy is nothing to be judged. Just enjoyed. I think if I questioned it, I would just suck the life right out of it. I sing. I live. I love. I hope I can just be grateful for these things – these amazing experiences. I hope you can too. Because it’s all pretty amazing. Look around. Just look. Just listen. This is not a bad day. This is life. This is joy. Just sing.