As most of you know, I love music.
Actually, I like to sing too but it’s more of a loud hum when I’m really into it. I suppose the notion of moving within music has always excited the hell out of me. When I was younger I grew into loving the trumpet; although at 34-years-old now, I was always jealous of the oboe. The sound of the oboe–although quacky at times, always stole the show and typically had the best solos and enticements within an orchestra setting. The oboe, in my opinion at the time, could do no wrong. Heck, we even tuned our instruments from her amazing beauty.
In many ways, I felt the oboe to be like me: an only child, extremely different, and of course, always the center of attention. However, and as fate dictated at the time, I fell in love with the trumpet and not because of the ability to call Reveille at o’dark thirty for 100 of my best neighbors.
See, I love all things that from one point to another can form into a beautiful something. In other words, I love to sing and hear music if only to be inspired to become greater in the experience.
So, I’m singing a new song because if anything, I get to see myself as the many layers of notes, colors, and shapes that make me me. That, my amazing friend, is where I begin to really live outside of myself.