All The World Is A Stage

As a child of the 80s, Wham was one of the coolest duos to hit pop scene. With their bubble gum beats, bright day-glow getups, and life's a party attitude, how was a girl to resist? It was sonic joy.

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By this time, I'd have figured out that vocalists weren't directly addressing me; otherwise, lyrics like "...now you tell me that you're having a baby, I'll tell you that I'm happy if you want me to," would have been mightily confusing. A few years earlier I had a meltdown when Barry Manilow crooned, "Sweet Melissa...come into my arms." In my mind, there could be only one Melissa. That's the power of voice, though.

1984 was a time of awakening- Prince released Purple Rain; Jersey's own Bon Jovi urged me to runaway; Kenny Loggins helped me cut loose, footloose. If Prince could be a self-made icon, Bon Jovi a Jersey kid made good, and Loggins a reminder of rebellious spirit, I could be anything. Naturally, I, too, would be a pop star, inspiring listeners with nothing but my voice. But where to begin?

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My best friend's first floor bedroom window seemed the best place to stage our act. Her sheer blue drapes, our stage curtain; the kids riding bikes and the adults coming home from work in the parking lot, our captive audience. We loaded her red tape recorder with a mix of songs to sing for Hensyn Village.

Sometimes, in preparation, we'd have to sit listening to the radio for what seemed like hours, waiting to press record at just the right time. Every now and again, you could hear our families in the background of these tracks, "What the hell are you listening to..." Columbia House fixed all that-- we could order 11 tapes for a penny. What a steal!

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Showtimes would vary, but for a while- we gave it our all. Propping that red recorder, parting the curtain, and putting on our best radio voices for a proper introduction, all the world was our stage. We were sure it was just a matter of time until we were discovered. With our faces pressed to the dark screen, we'd sing out our eight year old hearts- certain we were radio ready, the perfect mimics. 

I'm not sure why we stopped. I imagine the adults trudging home, tired from a long day at work, asked our parents to have us pipe down. The window remained a stage, but the set changed. For a while it was a bank teller window...because what kid didn't want to play bank? Later, it was a fast food window. Every now and again, though, we'd make it a DJ booth- instead of singing, we'd announce songs like MTV VJs and Morning Zoo DJs. When Barbie and the Rockers were released, we tried to rekindle our singing career, but our efforts were short lived and half hearted. But the power of voice stayed with me.

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I'm still learning new ways to use my voice. I'm still trying to help others find theirs...why else would I be an English teacher? I decided to write for an audience instead of for myself, but there is something distant in writing's reach, something controlled in its release. About a year ago, I decided to take up singing lessons- a challenge to my comfort zone, trying to find a fuller version of my voice. It remains one of the most unnerving endeavors of my adult life.

I'm still, strangely, embarrassed to sing in front of my teacher. Maybe it has something to do with the 5 x 5 lesson space- there's nowhere to hide. As I child, I belted with reckless abandon; now I'm terrified of making a mistake or sounding foolish, which only adds to my frustration. I know I need to let go; I know mistakes are part of learning; I know the futility of perfectionism, but I still find myself insecure and embarrassed. Fear inhibits my progress and ultimately my voice. It's funny how these things never occurred to me as a kid-- singing was a way of letting go, how strange as an adult it's a means of learning to let go. I miss the innate wisdom of childhood.

A few nights ago, Lynn Noble, new author and professional artist, offered me a kind of affirmation. At the age of 50, she debuted her first photograph exhibit and poetry collection, Let The Spirit Move You. Her positive vibrations buzzed through the the downtown art gallery as she shared her poetry.

photo credit: Lynn Noble (book cover)

Her meditative reflections address the freedom born of stillness of mind, but it was one of her last readings, "Morning Song," that gave me goose bumps: "The birds wake up singing.../ happy to be alive./ Even before the light of day shines through,/ they know it is coming. It reminded me that our voices are a source of joy, a source of hope. It reminded me that my journey has value, value worth singing about. Her voice inspired me and so I'm inclined to replenish that which the universe served me, excited where it leads us.