Austin — This morning I’m drawn to yawn. As the sun moves light art across the studio wall, my whole self involved in each slow inhalation, a primal un-hurrying.
In some practice sessions, the motor kicks quickly, sparkplugs snappy, charged. In others, notably on cold winter mornings, the voice asks for some patient revving.
This is an invitation to slow. Turn the key of inhalation, let the yawn become all there is and then let it go at its own sweet pace, unattached to whether this particular one starts you up.
Yawns want sound. Sounding the exhale of a yawn can be one of the most alive vocal experiences because the sound is so physically permeating. We can feel it broadly … chest, face, back, neck, skull, belly.
I yawn/sing for most of the 15 minutes today. Even as the yawns subside, my singing carries a similar, slow revving quality. This is a way to go slow in order to go fast, a solid foundation for any speedster maneuvers that might be called for later in the day.