Austin — Sometimes those little doorways into the next room seem so hard to see. Yet they are usually right there in front of us. It’s we who haze them away, for they appear like wrong notes, splats, disruptions, uncouth party guests.
This morning I’m singing away, perfectly acceptably, maintaining some invented standard of coherence and talent, without much verve, edge, or connection. Then out comes a blurt, a honk, a flat tire, a Beryl Cook gardener who just stepped on a thorn.
The instant impulse is to jump back to perceived safety but I catch myself and return to the site of the breakdown. I sing that wrong note again, walk through it and explore the uncharted land on the other side.
It’s freeing to sing outside of scales, keys, notes that please. For me it’s a reminder that all walls are thoughts, some of them agreed upon by more than one of us, so they seem more rigid.