Sudbury, Massachusetts — I sleep well, having arrived late last night at my brother’s family’s house outside of Boston. My niece and nephew waited up to say hi. I feel the water-like connection of family and lower some fences I don’t usually notice I wear.
My brother is the only one up as I make my way downstairs to his workshop, the place I have imagined doing my practice here.
I start singing, in the quiet way that has become familiar to me on planes, in waiting lounges, and in hotels with thin walls.
For a while my singing is automatic, my attention visual, catching the cabinets my brother built, the new wiring in the rafters, the blue house across the street.
There is a distinct moment in this practice session when something rises in me, like a good mood. It’s a groove that feels organic and original, like a reanimation of me after the transport of my tissue and bone across a thousand miles.
As I near the end of the 15 minutes, I feel a pull upstairs to where I know my family is emerging, one by one, into the kitchen, where my sister-in-law will have hot chai ready to share.