Adventures in singing

Singing is such a psychological mind-trick. I record myself quite often and during the recording I feel as if I'm giving the song my all, but I'll listen to it afterwards and I'm most often surprised at how timid and meek my voice sounds. It lack strength. This will come with time, I believe it is much like a muscle that needs to be worked out and it will slowly get stronger.

I feel as if there's a lack of confidence in my voice, not only while I sing, but also while I speak. I'm afraid to be heard, afraid to be ridiculed, afraid to be wrong. That is what I hear from my voice. A lack of commitment to myself. A lack of credibility. How could I not believe in myself? There is no other person in which I could believe more than myself.

I am sure that as I continue to exercise my voice, I will gain confidence in myself, in my beliefs, and my well-being can only improve. Singing or engaging in music is, to me, one of the healthiest activities that I can do for myself. If I'm feeling down and I pick up my ukulele for a few minutes, I cannot help but feel better afterwards. Just the act of singing regulates your breathing, your heart rate and your thoughts.

But it also brings me this underlying anxiety! I want it to sound good, to sound right, to be perfect. It can leave my chest tight with the pushing desire to expel my voice from my body. Like it's a fight, a battle between my mind and my vocal cords. A lack of understanding and belief in what they are capable of.

It's all about letting go, releasing yourself to the music. Relaxing into it, letting it carry you, floating, not thinking, meditating, playing. These are all feelings I'd like to associate with singing. My goals. I know that place exists and I know I'm heading there. Singing is my happy place and my happy place is about to dominate my life. As it should.

On the Train...

The Train

When you're encased in a few rolling metal boxes, there isn't much choice but to sit back and enjoy the ride. At least from my perspective. All the food I need for 4 nights, all my belongings stuffed into a backpack and my bicycle safe in the luggage car. Everything that I need. It's amazing how little we really need. I only really want what I need and I appreciate the extras. But when food is scarce and I force myself to shovel down some 3 day old cooked potatoes, greasing them up with mayonnaise so they slip down my throat easier, I feel alive. I have become adept on living below the "poverty line". Whatever that means. All I know is that I don't pay taxes. I definitely lead a pretty good life despite it. I have to admit I do get some money from family which allows me to feel generous and take my friends out for dinner and also allows a certain amount of security that people below the "poverty line" don't all have. 

The days are passed in the observation car, the nicotine-addicted awaiting the next stop so they can get their fix. You can feel each stop drawing closer as the fiends' energy builds anticipating the relief of nicotine. Ahhhh….  Makes me glad I don't smoke because that feeling of relief is not worth all the anxiety that is created in the first place, vicious cycle. I portion out my reading because I only have one book which I am really enjoying, so I'm savouring it slowly. There is no reason to rush, no possibility to be in a hurry. Where are you going to go? Every evening I get up and rock out at some point to release some stagnant energy of sitting around so much. Especially in the morning when you "wake up" having rested your eyes in positions that you didn't even know you could get into, everything cracking (mostly) back into place. But it'll take days for my body to really return to a comfortable state of being. A few deep sessions of yoga. 

It's a psychological process to cross the country by land, to be able to observe every foot as you pass it, to briefly pass through cities that you've heard of all your life but have never been to. To meet people with all different stories and watch them come together and split apart as the train stops and spits them out, only to swallow new friends and companions for brief conversations, moments of eye contact, and maybe even some jam sessions. The energy building and waning, perspectives mixing and matching and clashing and banging around the metal boxes. Laughter echoing into the moments past, tears shed quietly in a corner seat, and stolen kisses in the middle of the night under a stained sleeping bag. 

It's real. This is life crunched into a metal box and hidden under the bed. People, places, experiences happing NOW. It's all happening and we got nothing but time to be a part of it all.