Sweet dreams and flying machines

I might be the only I one I know who sings acapella alone in my house as a form of spiritual renewal. When I'm completely overcome with everything combative swirling around me, the forces of a brutal world trying to set me off course, I usually just throw my head back and sing. Sorry about that, neighbors.

I sing the songs that I don't remember learning, the ones whose tunes are as much me as my own elbow, the ones I sang at the top of my lungs in red velvet on cocoa brown carpet so long ago. Those ones. I did it then too, a little four year old diva with an audience of two. Now its an audience of none. Without thinking of who is listening, or even the key, letting loose a note that cuts the dusty city air so smoothly.. Music appeals to the higher order of things, the natural world without humans' messy interpretation. The right chord can strike on a cellular level - quashing the inauthenticity of modern life and replacing it with pure, undeniable truth.

Everyone has a way to renew, shed the layers of the world outside and remember who is underneath - the child who believes, who doesn't fear falling or failing, who asks for nothing more than eskimo kisses. My voice is a little huskier now, but it still resonates a clear note of what is essential - a stir of the soul with a little fire and rain.