The Song I've been Cursed not to Sing

Music has a way of reaching us in ways that transend conversation, words and tones that touch you in ways that don't even make sense in the moment, if ever.  And with that pretentious beginning, I want to talk about one of those places, where a song takes on a new body of its own, that has its own complexity and presence.  

There is a song that I've been cursed not to sing.  What I mean by that is that it seems each time I was supposed a part of performing this song that something, specifically my health concerns, has interfered. 

The first time, apart from casual listening on the radio, that I heard "I Will Rise" was as part of a choir tour.  I was friends with the daughter of the choir director at Wesley UMC and a couple other good folk there.  They needed young adult chaperones to go along and sing to help bolster the sound where it was needed (there was one song I was tenor, another where I was alto one, and so on).  There were some very holy moments in that practice, where the group sang that proclamation with hearts in our throats.  The trip was going to take us into Canada, a week or so of adventuring and bonding.  

As we were preparing though, my health was staring to deteriorate.  I ignored it for as long as I could, languishing through my classes and collapsing back in the church basement at First UMC immediately afterwards.  Eventually, I had fevers consistently enough that I knew it wasn't safe for me to be driving, and it couldn't be ignored anymore:  I broached my health concerns with those in charge of the trip.  We started talking about what accommodations we might need, but I knew pretty quickly that the right decision was to back out.  I ended up being hospitalized during the week of or shortly after they left, I don't remember exactly.  I think I still have the postcards that they sent me.  

After than, whenever I heard this song--this song that makes strong declarations of overcoming and triumph and strength--now only reminded me of the fragility of my body and how I have missed out on many things as a result.  

There was another instance where I was supposed to be part of a group singing this song, but I confess I don't remember the details.  Most recently, though, it was a featured song at choir school this year.  The choir school that I had to back out of because I didn't have enough time off to go to my appointments at Mayos AND go to choir school (SOMEDAY I will use time off primarily for time off and not for appointments and procedures).  So this song, lovely as it is, pings against my psyche in some unpleasant ways.

And now to a few weeks ago.  Our music intern at church had chosen this song and asked in rehearsal if I could sing a solo.  I'm sure he had no idea what he was asking in that moment.  I had thought about declining--I know that I could have without any sore feelings--but I've got enough stubborn that it wasn't the option I was going to start with, in any case.  The first practice I sang it as part of the rehearsal, the words choked in my throat, from a mixture of nerves and other emotion that I was afraid to analyze in the moment.  

But in order to get through it, I had to dissect that feeling at some point.  The song to me has always been about triumph, but reminds me chiefly of defeat.  When I tried to sing it triumphantly, something that I was decidedly not feeling, it just didn't work.  My normal treatment toward a solo is to sing it until I'm sick of it, but this seemed to be making things worse, tears forming as soon as I thought of trying to sing through it again.  Even the nature of the solo and how Tyler described how he wanted it, a quiet moment when all else fades away, the tears came more and more readily.  

Eventually, as I sat trying to sort through it all for the umpteenth time, I asked myself "what if I sang it more like a promise and less like a proclamation?"  This made me feel a lot better.  The tears are more cathartic now, instead of just anger and hurt.  

This song forces me to grieve.  On the one hand that's good.  I know that I don't take these moments as often as I need to.  I'm working on that, not shunting away elements that I need to address, so that I don't end up crying in front of the white bread at the supermarket.  

This song has held so many meanings to me--how many of them were going to come out this time?  I shared this with the choir, through those same tears, the rehearsal before performance, finding one of those beautiful moments were we could all be vulnerable to each other and, paradoxically, find strength.  And when one person is vulnerable, it makes it a safe space for others to be so, too, if they choose.  I felt much better after that, the anxiety eking away, and finding some peace that whatever happened would happen, and that was okay, even good.  There were a lot of significant looks between the choir members, sharing strength and solidarity.  It meant all the more for it.  We made music that day.  

And where that leaves me now, well, I'm still sorting through that.  I feel as though I've reclaimed a part of something.  What that something is or even how much of it there is, that's harder to nail down.  I do feel a little more triumphant when I hear the song now, or at least not wholly sad.  I think of Tyler.  I think of Mamma P.  I think of Andy standing next to me.  I think of the group hug from rehearsal.  There is an underlying sadness, still, but colored with brighter edges, shifting the grief to a little more hope.  

My therapist asked me the other day what I would want in the world, what would bring me peace.  More of these moments, certainly, where grief is present but shifting toward healing.  There are a lot of other components that need this frame shift, that need to be reclaimed.  I won't say that this one is fully rewritten, but baby steps and breaking a curse seem like progress to me.