kersploding

Wow! What a weekend. Beautiful. We had nearly four hundred folks participate over the two days--our biggest singing yet. And not only did everything go smoothly, but even in those unwieldy numbers, we were able to really come together as a community for our shared purpose and enjoy a pervasive sense of unity. There are always annoying little snags in the social and structural fabric of an event like this, and some of my singing brethren seemed as satisfied as ever to occupy a large portion of their time and energy in homing in and dwelling on those, but this year I was able to witness the inevitable element of negativity without feeling overcome by it or in any way responsible for it. And anyway, that element seems, objectively speaking, to be growing smaller and less potent with every passing year. The unity, on the other hand, is increasingly unmistakable.

We are an odd group, really diverse with regard to age and religious and political orientation. We come from all over the country, but the areas of particularly concentrated activity comprise both the rural south and the bluest of blue states and metropolitan areas. It feels a bit superficial to even be focusing on this aspect of things, but--just to get it across to the uninitiated--seriously, where else will you find skate punks joyfully engaged in the same activity as both aging hippies and pious, conservative southerners? Yet our love for the music we share connects us so immediately on the level of Love and Spirit that none of the sort of social challenges you might imagine for such a scenario ever seem to materialize. We simply don't discuss religion or politics. It's enough to have this music in common.

So what is it about the music? Well, the singing is raw and intense, startlingly loud, as richly and gorgeously imperfect as we are, and--when we're really together--absolutely transcendent. There's just nothing else like it. And perhaps because there's nothing else like it, and no convenient accessibility-increasing reference point for it on the radio or anywhere else in pop culture, people tend to either love it or hate it. Imagine ecstatic punk rock with overt religious/life/death themes, where the whole audience is the band, and you might be approaching the ballpark.

You can listen here to some samples of our local singing events from a few years back.

And the weekend for me, personally? Well, I woke up Friday with some cold symptoms; by the beginning to the third session on the first day, they had manifested as laryngitis. I was able to sing a bit in a lower range for most of Saturday, but by the end of the day I had to push hard to make any sound at all, and when I did so only the most unmusical croaks escaped my lips. Crap. I spent most of the Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning helping out with the business of keeping the event ticking, and for a while I was happy to be of service, but by late Sunday morning this routine was getting old. As someone once said about S. H. singing, "I'd travel across the country to sing it, but I wouldn't cross the street to listen to it." Or something. The point is that listening is not the point: the juice is in the participation. And I was beginning to get tired and sad from the frustration of only being able to listen.

Then came the time of the weekend when we sing for singers and loved ones who have passed away in the last year, and also for those who are sick or struggling. It is frequently one of the most powerful moments of the event, as we come together in unity of purpose and gratitude for the community. The first singer to share her thoughts touched me immediately with her ideas about the depth and substance of the sharing that we do at this time, and in general as a community. She has struggled with serious illness over the past few years, and she said she understood from direct experience how much it meant to be sung for at those times. She lead one of my favorite songs, which includes the following text (which I have found especially helpful in times of struggle): When through the deep waters I call thee to go, the rivers of sorrow shall not overflow. For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless, and sanctify to thee thy deepest distress. As the names on the list were read, I resolved to make whatever sound I could in order to participate in remembering and supporting these people. And by the end of that song, I could sing again, though still just in my lower range.

Things just got more beautiful from there. The second half of that lesson, for those who had died, was even more moving than the first. The songs that were sung immediately following served as a sort of extended remembrance. I connected during this time with a woman who lost her son fourteen months ago in Iraq. It's an honor to have participated in supporting her and her family through that painful time (some of us sang at his funeral; she walked behind his casket holding her S.H. book, and she sang with us), and it's a joy to have her beautiful, joyful and resilient spirit among our local singing family. I only know her in the context of singing, but she's clearly an amazing and wonderful person. All I did yesterday was move to stand closer to her when I noticed her crying during the lesson, and offer a hug and a few awkward words of support. Yet she went out of her way to thank me after, "for being such a good friend." I can't describe the loveliness and fullness of intention that she focused on me as she took my hands and said that. These are small moments and small gestures, in a way, yet in that moment I understood that they are the biggest things in the world.

So I moved through the sea of hungry hearts, and I sang all afternoon. At one point late in the day, despite the unimaginably ample supply of reasons to be grateful, my ego managed to get me feeling sorry for myself. I hadn't been called to lead a song yet that day! I'd end up having to go as an afterthought, I bitterly mused, as mass overwhelm and exhaustion set in at the end of the long weekend, as socially not-all-there types became unmoored and started leading redonkulous tunes we were all far too satieted to dedicate ourselves to with any meaningful focus. Plus my voice was going again. (Though, hmmm... that seemed to kick in after the pity party began...) But, lo--what's this? The really, really not-all-there guy DID call the redonkulous tune, and he tried to make it even more arduous by talking about how hard it was, saying that if we got stuck, we could start over. But we came together before we even started singing the song. We effortlessly and good-naturedly guided the misguided singer along the most expedient and joyful path available. The song went fine; it was fun, even. No derailment. No deflation. It would take more than that this year. By the time I was called to lead a song, I realized I had been saved for last, just before the traditional closing song and prayer. It was an honor. My energy and my voice returned. I sang something joyful and fast, and many singers enthusiastically thanked me for closing out the session thusly as we all said our goodbyes.

I am filled with gratitude. And I'm actually not even all that wrung-out or strung-out emotionally. I think not being able to sing much this year may in a way have made it possible for me to have an easier time of things. Though I wouldn't want to lose my voice at a sing again, I have to admit--this was more manageable. Maybe I can take more breaks and do more administrative helping by choice next year.

On a somewhat related note, I noticed something interesting and slightly disappointing about myself yesterday. Last night after I'd been home for a few hours, I sent an email to many of my singing friends and the organizers of the event, with the same title as this post. I tried to express in as few words as possible how I was feeling; I went the cute route by using not-quite-English. And after I hit "send," I realized that all that love and gratitude had gone without saying, and that by saying it, even in a few virtually nonsensical phrases, all I was doing was popping a bubble for myself. I couldn't take the tension anymore--or in any case, I chose not to. I wrote to bring things back to normal. It worked, in a manner of speaking, but next time I'll see if I can just hold the tension of joy and fullness and gratitude too big for words, and let it dissipate on its own. I think this is related to my efforts toward poise... Live and learn. Live and live!