Breathe In. Breathe out.

I have company this morning.  It’s quite early, and it’s been both a centering and anxiety-ridden few days…in and out of self…rising out of unconscious selfishness and into being present and available to others.

Mike will be on his way to the airport in California soon and I’m thankful.  This is the first time he’s traveled in some months, and I miss him when he’s gone.  I’m reminded of how grounding his presence can be, and also…what lightness we bring to one another.

Will awakened me about an hour ago and he’s lying on the couch next to me, finally into restful slumber that I know will help him throughout his day today.  He had a nightmare about an intruder, which is a rarity, and didn’t want to go back to sleep alone in his bed.  So we moved downstairs, because I assumed THAT was probably IT for my night of sleep.  It was already 3:30, I had been asleep for about 6 hours, and I know myself well enough to realize that I probably won’t be dreaming again tonight.

And so, I’m awake and writing while he lays wrapped in blankets at my side.  Breathing in and breathing out.

He has no conscious realization of my being here at this moment, and yet he must feel comforted.  Because he sleeps. That’s what happens for us all, right? Sometimes we are aware of the supportive thoughts and actions of others.  And sometimes we are not.

Yesterday, I sang at the funeral of the dear husband of my lifelong friend, mentor, and additional mother figure in my life.  She is quite a force to be reckoned with, has always been, and it was difficult to see her in such pain.  She has been friends with my parents since before I was born, ended up living down the street from us for some of my childhood years in Houston, became my middle school choir director, and then a fellow choir member at the church I attended about 12 years ago.  And she lives just a neighborhood over from me in Round Rock, even though throughout the last few years, I’ve hardly seen her in person.

I heard of her husband’s passing a few days ago, and then she called me to ask if I would sing at the funeral.  And yes, my first thought was a selfish one.  I didn’t know if these muscles had atrophied over the last several years of no intensive legitimate singing….and I didn’t know if I could do my “best.”  Yeah, well.  That wasn’t her question.  She didn’t call to ask if I could do my best.  She called to ask if I would sing.  To be there with all that I am, and to give solace in song. Because I am able. That’s always the case.  I am usually able.  That’s not so hard to do.  The question is…am I willing?  

And yes, I always ask a truckload more of myself than even willingness.  I want to be able to give of myself in moments like this.  To connect and get out of self, because that’s when there’s meaning to the offering.  That’s when music becomes love-born spirit that moves about a room, flitting about our souls and wafting through the rafters.

And then I found out what I was being asked to sing….and ha!...one of the pieces ended on a floating high A…with a fermata.  (For those who don’t know what that means, it’s when the note lasts forever and a day….as long as you want it to….and for every singer, we usually want it to end before it ever began.)  You must be conscious of breath, of careful control, and extend it as long as you desire.  I always desire it longer than I can withstand.

I just had to decide that my presence was more important than whatever flew out of my mouth when I made it to that measure.  THAT line would just ascend unto the heavens, and I would give that note to the gods, really.  “Oh God, please handle it with care.”

I arrived early yesterday, having time to rehearse a little with my longtime friend and organist, and watched her family make their way into the sanctuary.  Such a time of respect and humility, to be in the presence of those who have endured what I can only attempt to understand- being present and supportive to a husband, father and grandfather who fought cancer with fervor and perseverance.  And I watched as many others filtered into that space, wondering how he touched them and whether they were personal acquaintances of him or the other members of the family on the first couple of pews. And I’m sure it didn’t matter to some in attendance, if the family even SAW them there.  Their mere presence mattered.

It was the first time that I’ve been asked to sing in this way since I’ve been in recovery.  And I wondered what the experience would be like.  Don’t get me wrong.  No, I never drank in situations like this, ya’ll…but hell yeah, I may have had a drink after…especially if it was a family member or close friend.  In most cases, other people did too.

I remember being asked to sing at my Uncle’s funeral years ago, and besides the hours preceding the actual service, those days were accompanied by quite a bit of wine and woe.  I spent hours and hours going through his Ipod playlists, searching for the selection where he silently highlighted its hearing…saying…”yes!  this is the one.  please sing THIS one, jen.”  

I was entirely sober when I listened to over 50 songs a few days before the funeral…because I had to be clear-headed to make a decision.  Unfortunately, that meant that I’d be feeling too.  He died suddenly, and so it was left up to me to choose what to sing.  His son left me in his office that day, in front of the computer, with headphones to take it all in.  I was totally overwhelmed at first, but eventually settled in to listen to it all…to this soundtrack of his life.  And I cried.

I went into it knowing exactly what I would find in most of his selections.  I had rocked in his pickup truck many a time to Stevie Ray and the sound of that American Fender Stratocaster.  You can’t HEAR that instrument being played and not KNOW that it’s Stevie Ray, man.  It doesn’t matter that there are no words some of the time.  He didn’t need words.  They were just the icing anyway.  And I can’t listen to it and not hear the voice of my uncle in the guitar solos.  Every time.  Raw, masterful and so alive.  Greg told stories with panache, amazing vocal sound effects and unflinching joy. Singing at my Uncle’s funeral was one of the most difficult moments of my adult life.  Truly.  It was the one time when I just didn’t think I could get beyond my personal pain to give anything whatsoever to another human being.  Certainly not a fucking melody.

But I did it.  I don’t remember much of the actual singing, but others tell me I was there…held up by something or someone.  

Maybe my love for him.  Maybe the love in that room.

I was happy to sing yesterday.  I was happy that I was centered enough to be present for my friend and her family.  And sure, I was happy that the last note of that piece didn’t crack and crumble like the communion wafers on the alter.  It was my offering.  It was a tiny moment of support for people who deserve much more.

And this morning I’m aware that we don’t always know how people are supporting us along this journey that we take each day…trudging or skipping through these hours.  We notice who has sent flowers and plants, because the card notes the Sender.  And we can see who filters into our space.  But we just don’t know how far-reaching the love is.  Where it’s being sent.  Where it’s being received.  Sometimes we must function by faith alone, just knowing that someone or something is holding us up.

I am trying to be more cognizant of the love that I breathe every day. 

I inhale it and I exhale it.  Conscious all the while.

I realize that I have terrible difficulty accepting offerings of love for some things….and tend to NEED it for others. I don’t need or even want to accept thanks for singing at funerals, and if it happens, I prefer it to be from family members of the honoree only.  In a private setting.  Short and sweet, so I can duck away from this kind of attention that is uncomfortable for me.  That’s why I didn’t go to the lunch at my friend’s house after the service yesterday.  I didn’t want attention in that setting, and I was afraid there might be a little.  I hate feeling like I want to rush to change the subject if anyone comes up to me to talk about my singing.  Ugh.

And yet, after my last blog, I needed a little hand holding, frankly.  I needed comforting for going there.  I needed affirmation and love.  I’ve been singing for years, but I’ve only been writing for three months.  And sometimes I ain’t writing about rainbows and puppy dogs, right?  Well, there was that ONE about the Rooster…(smiling)…

I’m just human, so yes, I still watch for who adds a thumbs up or a heart on Facebook when I post my latest blog sometimes.  Yes, it’s embarrassing to admit that.  But come on, you would too.  And then, I read a note from an old college friend that took my breath away.  Her words hugged me close and sang in my ear.  I have no idea if she knows that I needed that love after the last couple of days of writing…and of singing.  But I did. Sometimes we just don’t know how much that kind word, or that sweet note, or that song sung, or that long hug might mean.

So…say it.    Write it.    Sing it.    Hug them.  If you are able.  If you are willing.

I’m leaving you with a song today.  It’s the song that I sang at my Uncle Greg’s funeral several years ago. In the mass of southern rock music that his Ipod held, I found this John Mayer tune that’s really a juxtaposition of depth and lightness.  If you read the words alone, you might be surprised by the mood of the accompaniment.  It’s buoyant and simple.  Yep, when I searched for what to sing, there was absolutely no way that I could have sung some melodramatic anthem.  You must know your own limitations, and I KNEW that I couldn’t sing something like that under those circumstances.  And Greg never would have asked me to try.

So…enjoy the song.

When we give in love, with the best of intention, it is never for naught.  It doesn't have to be our best.  It just has to be.  

Sometimes it’s enough to just be in the room for someone else.  Just breathing together.

John Mayer’s “Heart of Life”