Why Don’t I Play Ping Pong With My Mouth?

Apparently, my inspiration for blogging comes from snippets I read in the news.  Another interesting article brought about some more navel gazing and today’s the day to write about it.

First of all, watch this video clip.



OK. Pretty cool story, right?

I thought so too.  I admire people like Ibrahim who overcome the obvious impossible to do something extraordinary.  Honestly, I even admire people who overcome much more modest challenges to do something extraordinary but their stories might not cause my brain to churn quite as much.

Sometimes, I feel like an anti-Ibrahim.  Not  “against” Ibrahim but “opposite” Ibrahim.  I have some nagging shoulder pain that became burdensome in late November and the pain and even the potential of pain has shut me down from doing certain things.  I was working out...lifting weights and other weight bearing exercises like burpees and push-ups but this shoulder pain has halted all progress.  Last week, an MRI showed that I do have a tear in my labrum (tissue surrounding shoulder socket that connects a bunch of things like bicep tendon etc) and I’ll admit that the diagnosis helped ease my guilt about not doing what I was doing but a torn labrum doesn’t mean that I can’t do anything. I can walk.  I can do the elliptical machine (can’t swim, Yoga, pilates or Crossfit though. Not that I ever cross fitted but now I have a legitimate excuse not to other than just being philosophically opposed to its cult like following).

My lame shoulder is not the point of the ping pong metaphor, however.  I enjoyed workout out but it was never something I loved so I don’t miss it like Ibrahim seemed to miss playing. Without that passion, I can understand why I haven’t done any and all to find some way to adapt workouts so my lats and deltoids get some lifting reps. No, my being aware of not playing ping pong (table tennis...whatever) with my mouth has to do with singing.

Two months ago, I rejoined the local choral society. I quit 3 years ago when my YW president calling (and then surprise pregnancy) superseded my desire to sing.  After a visit to a doctor a few months ago, who suggested either going on anti-depressants or making time in my life to do something I enjoyed that is independent of church, mothering or being a wife, I felt like singing might be the thing to help me restore some balance. It has been just the thing.

I don’t think I enjoyed participating in the chorale as much the first time around.  This time, I have made a more concerted effort to meet and know the other choir members and it definitely helps that my two older boys are old enough to take care of things at home if Jay is not around.  We performed a concert two weeks ago entitled “Serenity,”singing classical religious music that was beautiful and challenging, including Shubert’s Mass in G, and we have another concert tonight called “Cabaret” which is filled with show tunes, jazz, and patriotic numbers. Additionally, there were open try-outs for solo spots.  I didn’t try for any of them.

The thing that is really bugging me this week is that I keep fantasizing about singing a solo in the concert. I thinking I have crooned “Maybe This Time,” which would have been perfect for this concert, in the car...at the piano... in the shower...about two dozen times in the last two weeks since auditions. I have all of these songs I know and love that I never get to sing (because where do you sing a song about getting dumped in full belt voice?) and I’m a little sick to my stomach that when an opportunity came to sing them in front of an audience - to do something I really enjoy, nay, something I am, in fact, passionate about, I didn’t have the guts to do it.

There is something, in my opinion, a little embarrassing about being passionate about singing. I don’t feel like that about other musical passions.  Guitar, piano, oboe...you name it...someone who passionately goes after opportunities to play is pretty cool! But voice, when the skill on the instrument is hidden inside the neck and upper body cavity, well...it’s more personal. It feels a bit like narcissism. Like...look at me! When you sing a solo, you experience this moment in time when you, just you, are trying so hard to be good and what if, in spite of your very best effort, you aren’t? What if, during that moment of total exposure, with your singing feathers in full plumage, those watching and listening are thinking, “Meh.”  Truthfully, because voice tones are so unique and preferences so personal, there is a very good chance that that is exactly what is happening during any vocal solo. I don’t know where my neurosis comes from, exactly, but the only time I sing solos is when asked (and 99.8 % of the asking is at church where the repertoire is limited) and even then it feels a little bit like showboating.  What is my problem?

Perhaps, and this is a stretch, I lost my singing arms back when I decided that a degree in vocal performance wasn’t for me.  I can remembering making the decision as an 18 year-old fish out of water freshman at BYU that I wasn’t good enough to really do it. Perform professionally. Out there in the world. That decision, to forgo the training and the experiences and the effort to be better, tied my arms behind my back so that I then had an excuse to not do something that I really love doing. Whether it’s from my own lack of pursing or a real lack of opportunity, it is easy for me to watch and listen to others perform and wonder, “What if?”

Now, I’m the chorale again and my brain knows they do this cabaret concert every year. My brain knows I could audition next year. It feels ridiculous to be thinking about something so far away.  It feels ridiculous to be this contemplative and nervous about auditioning for a solo spot in the future in a small time show in a small town. It’s not like I’m trying to get on The Voice or a part on Broadway. Still, I want to do it. I want to sing “Maybe This Time” or “Tell Me One A Sunday” or “Can’t Help Loving “Dat Man” or, heaven forbid, “I Dreamed A Dream” in front of an audience on a stage with a spotlight squared right on me. Is that too weird? Why can’t I like quilting or running or home decorating or some other socially acceptable hobby?

If I’m going to do it, I need to get used to having a metaphorical paddle in my mouth. I need to be brave enough to do something I love inspite of/because of my inability to do it at a level I once dreamed about. I need to remember that it’s better to adapt a dream than give it up altogether.  I need to try.