Last night my singing class sang on a hill in Hampstead Heath overlooking London.
We usually gather in one of our member’s flat in Finsbury Park. But yesterday, because of the sunshine, someone suggested we meet on the Heath to sing our hearts out.
We sang as the scorching sun went down.
Around us, walkers walked, dogs cavorted, leaves rustled in the cooling breeze.
It was a perfect way to spend a summer evening.
This group of about twelve people has been singing together for about ten years now. I joined last year.
Our teacher, Guillermo Rozenthuler, is like a guru. His exercises I find have more to do with how to live than with just how to sing.
The main thing, he teaches, is to get over yourself. To step away from all your thoughts and inhibitions and just open your mouth.
Stop using your mind.
Stop that damn censor.
How well his words relate to writing.
“Every time you worry about whether you sound good enough you are like a tiny screw driver drilling in my head,” he once told me.
“Insecurity is very noisy,” he said. “It throws everything off.”
So for those couple of hours once a week I try to do what he says.
I step out of myself and my insecurity.
I open my mouth.
Deep, deep river. Lord….
photo by fofurasfelinas (flickr)