Singapore — Today I head for green, making my way by train and foot to the Singapore Botanical Gardens. It’s a hot and humid walk, and as I arrive, the air thickens more, hinting at rain.
I sit down on a bench in a small brick shelter and start singing.
I ramble for a while, until that point I notice often in my practice, when my singing slows down and it feels like I arrive more substantially in the moment. Today it includes more vividly seeing my surroundings and hearing the early drops of rain on the shelter’s roof.
As people walk by I also notice my automatic reticence to stand out, some loon singing away in the park. I automatically cross my legs and pick up a notepad so it looks like I’m humming to myself while doing something else, which I apparently think is more socially acceptable than just being there and singing.
I smile at this and try shouting a few times, still feeling some invisible volume limiter in this environment where people don’t stick out.
The rain starts more in earnest and I start singing more loudly as people clear the paths, looking for cover. I sing to beckon more storm, conjure more thunder and more water. For a while it feels like this is working. Then the rain lets up a bit and I relax my conjuring.