I've mentioned somewhere before that I sing with a few choirs.  Make no mistake, though: I am no one's idea of a soloist.  (In fact, I sing so low that you might not be able to hear me!)  I blend extremely well, however, and this suits me just fine.  No pressure to do anything other than fill in the background, and plenty of opportunity to observe the audience reaction to the song.

Judging from the amount of praise we get after our performances, I think we do okay, even as our numbers dwindle, and we don't get around as much as we used to.  Often I hear people wondering aloud how we can stand up and perform like we do.  They wonder if our lives lend themselves to performing without a care in the world, or at least that's how we appear to them, anyway.  Speaking as an introvert with almost crippling stage fright, and way too many personal things going on to count, I'd like to offer at least a partial answer to that question.

In late 2001, gospel artist Kirk Franklin released a song called "Why We Sing".  It took it's chorus from an old hymn, "His Eye Is on the Sparrow", which talks about not being worried about how you are going to manage the things outside of your control currently going on in your life.  In the singing of this refrain, you discover the reason so many of us sing, even in the midst of the chaos going on around us:

"I sing because I'm happy,"

Right now, I have every right to be in the middle of a nervous breakdown.  One child completely unmotivated and making no progress, another having fairly serious socio-emotional issues, stagnant job mobility or opportunities, serious financial issues that might soon see me tossed out of my apartment despite starting a second job, and unless I am willing to pay a professional, damn near no one to talk to.  And I know for a fact that I am not the only one going through serious difficulties right now.  Yet, I can still say that I am happy.  Regular prayer gives me just  the release valve I need, right when I need it most.  Not prayer in the sense of asking that my issues be resolved for me, so much as venting, and grasping to understand at least some of it.  I have rarely not come away with the understanding that nothing is forever, not even issues.  One child will eventually find a direction, the other will grow out her issues, and even if the financial issues don't get worked out in enough time to save this place (bad decisions made out of desperation do come back to haunt you), this won't be the first time I've had to move during bad circumstances.  I am not the only person to have ever gone through these things, and people do understand.  I am not alone, although it might look that way from the outside.  My happiness is not based on a lack of want, so much as it is based on the knowledge that everything ends, good, bad or otherwise.  Which leads to:

"I sing because I'm free,"

We have an interesting concept of freedom here in the US.  We celebrate our own freedom while sometimes actively denying it to anyone who holds a different viewpoint from our own.  This is not true freedom in that you are creating a hate that will make it hard for the next person to exercise their freedom.  I speak here of the Christians that mistreat anyone they feel is beneath them, either because they are not a Christian at all, or they feel that that person is not Christian enough.  If your practice of Christianity involves condescension, or belittling someone else's beliefs or lack there of, here's a hint:  Christianity - You're doing it WRONG!  Christianity is not an ego driven quest to make everybody just like you, and our Constitutional right to freedom of religious practice extends to EVERYONE, including those who practice no religion whatsoever, as well as my progressive, feminist take on Christianity.  So long as no one is actively being hurt by any particular practice (or if they are being hurt, it is dealt with properly), our freedom to believe as we will is protected.  Freedom to worship when, where and however you choose is not a freedom  extended all over the world, and we deny it to one another at our peril, lest we lose the one thing we are denying to someone else.

"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me"

This is a concept I know people have the most issues with and questions about.  The idea of an all knowing and all seeing Father in the sky.  I've always viewed this aspect in a metaphorical sense.  The world places a great deal of emphasis on the individual, and in the US especially, personal responsibility is both a buzzword, and an expletive, depending on the context it is used in.   This is the reason most people have a hard time dealing with anything outside of their control.  So when people need to reach out for understanding, especially when things go wrong, and occasionally when things mysteriously go right even when they had every reason to go catastrophically wrong, the idea behind Faith, the feeling that someone out there cares about you, can empathize with your struggles, and in some way will always be there for you, is a necessity that keeps some people together in the middle of situations that would crack someone else.  For some, this might be their only method of finding some sort of peace that the outside world is trying to deny them.  The plight of African American churches and congregations in the South, both during slavery and the civil rights movement comes to mind.  Why disturb them if for no other reason than people that were meant to be cowed into silence and cooperation with their own oppression were finding peace, comfort, and often the strength to continue fighting within them?

While I am specifically telling my own story above, I know at least some small portion of it will apply to everyone that sings in every choir across the nation, maybe even across the world.  We are far from perfect, and we find the strength to sing through all of our worst trials, because we know that in some church, somewhere, someone is waiting for something positive, some shred of encouragement, something that will help them keep on going through the next day, and we might, maybe, deliver that.  If we can help someone, even if it just momentarily brightens their day, we've done something right.  I've said that I'm no soloist, but I do have a few favorites that I can listen to repeatedly as there are just notes that they sing that really appeal to me: Brenda, Sharon, Inez (these are all Sopranos, BTW.  I sing soprano, so perhaps there is a bit of bias there!  :)  ) Tomi and Willa.  The songs we learn, I often find myself singing to myself for days on end, and often refer to them at times when I need peace or comfort, and sometimes, for celebration.

And that's the reason why I sing.

To say that Mother's Day means different things to different people is likely the understatement of the century.

For a lot of women, Mother's Day is the day when their successes and value as a Mother is applauded by all far and near.  If they have adult children, they call home or come visit for some combination of food, flowers, conversation, and possibly a walk or a movie.  Those with younger children may be treated to all manner of homemade gift by teachers that love any excuse to break out the arts and crafts.  This is all wonderful, obviously, but there is another group of mothers who we don't readily acknowledge for whom Mother's Day looms as a painful reminder of exactly how much they don't fit the norm.

This post is for them.

For the mothers whose children yell at inappropriate times, garnering them hard side-eye and loud whispers from everyone around them;

For the mothers who have children with behavior issues are that aren't as easily handled as the people giving you condescending, contradictory advice that you have already heard 50 times, tried, and already know that it either won't work, or will only work for a few minutes;

For the mothers who did everything they knew how to do: made sure their children went to school, took them to church, loved them, disciplined them, asked them about their day, and REALLY listened when they answered, and the child still made one or more truly bad decisions and is now incarcerated or dead;

For all of the mothers whose inner demons drove them to unspeakable pain, pain that translated into absent, neglectful or abusive parenting, and now their children are no longer with them;

For the mothers whose children have given up on life, despite their best efforts to encourage them;

For the mothers who children exist in that grey area where they doing neither poorly nor well: in reality, they aren't doing much of anything;

For the mothers who were imperfect, whose children are struggling, who now face down stares, whispers and judgment from family and friends;

For mothers for whom Mother's Day is a reminder of their frayed relationships with their own mothers:

I am one of you.  I understand, and I salute you.  I know the road you walk is not an easy one because I am currently on that path.  We are those who will never really know what kind of parent we were because are children are not on the same path other children are.  We get the occasional pat on the head or hand as assurance that we have not totally screwed up, but internally we can't help but look around us, wondering what our lives would be like if we were "normal" mothers.

We will do all of the right things on Sunday.  Some of will go to church, smile with everyone else, and accept the greetings of the day.  Someday, we hope, everything will be alright, or normal at least.  Until then, at least on the inside, Mother's Day is just another day.

"It's time for Spring I say!"

Or so the lead gnome tells the others as he wakes them to start preparing for spring in the classic 1936 Happy Harmonies short "To Spring".

Here in the warm, dry southwest corner of the United States, the passing of seasons isn't  always as prominent as it is in the rest of the country.  Actually, this year, we haven't been able to tell exactly what season it was, as we seem to have at least one week's worth of each season every month.  One week of cold, wet winter weather, followed by a week mild of mild spring/fall temperatures, followed by a week of 90 degree dry, desert heat.  The standard wardrobe divisions aren't necessary; you end up wearing the majority of your clothing year round.

I know in the rest of the country, they are eagerly looking for the bright colors the gnomes bring, because winter is refusing to go quietly.  In fact, it's decided to stay as long as it possibly can, dumping as much snow on the ground as the average winter in what should be the beginning of spring. It's still cold and gray, but there is the occasional day where it gets a little warm to give them a little hope of the beautiful days to come.  On those days, people get to see a little peek of color here; a small flower bud there; a glimpse of green on a tree branch somewhere.

Truthfully, I am ready for the colors of spring myself.  The dull gray of constant concrete reinforces the gloom of urban living, and when mixed with the drab clouds of overcast days make for a good excuse to remain indoors with a mug of warm tea and a good book.  I am ready to resume my afternoon walks around Downtown, and the flowers and trees of spring remind me that nothing remains grey forever, flowers bloom again, and all things can be made new.  I like the fact that in certain urban areas, builders sometimes paint buildings in pastel colors to make them stand out from the surrounding deadly seriousness of the other building near them.  Those structures stand out like the little beacons of hope that they are probably meant to be, in the middle of serious buildings, where likely serious business is conducted.  Walking or driving past these buildings gives me the feeling of spring year round.  Almost like the renewal associated with Spring is achievable no matter what the calendar says.

Which it is, of course.  But that's a topic for another day.  Right now, I am going to get out from behind this keyboard.   Although I'll be working, I am definitely going to enjoy the colors of the day.