Last night we had a mini-choir session by Zoom.
As one does whilst firmly entrenched in an ongoing-perpetual-Groundhog-Day-global-pandemic.
I wasn’t going to do it at all. I had many compelling reasons why not; it wasn’t the same as singing in person, I hate Zoom, and several other rather petulant-sounding reasons. In fact, if I didn’t know better, my interior monologue was bordering on sullen-child mode.
So, I sat myself down and said, “Colleen. Please do share. What the hell else have you got going on?”
Damn. I hate it when I have to call my own bullshit.
That settled it. Apparently, the only pressing engagement I could come up with was the 1000-piece puzzle frustrating me at the dining room table.
Seriously, I said to myself, that’s all you’ve got?
I logged on.
There weren’t many others on the screen, and except for our choir director, Marta, we were all muted so we could sing together without making the stupid Hollywood Squares short circuit with too many voices.
Still, it was lovely to see mask-free faces and doing the vocal warm-ups was fun.
Previously, Marta had emailed us the lyrics to a simple tune. She began, playing her piano and singing.
And then, dear people, it was our turn to try singing – alone and silently together.
Line by line.
If you’ve been thinkin’ you were all that you’ve got
Then don’t feel alone anymore
‘Cause when we’re together then you’ve got a lot
‘Cause I am the river and you are the shore
And just like that, the tears were leaking down my face.
I don’t know about you, but I am often surprised by emotions that I didn’t even know I was feeling. The words were so pandemic-poignant and the feeling of ongoing loss coupled with this crazy cyber connection of a Zoom choir practise was enough to bleed out feelings I didn’t even know were there.
Why am I telling you this?
Because sometimes, no matter how lame the connection might feel and how petulant our inner child might be squawking, I think it’s important to keep trying to connect, in whatever way is safely possible.
Because we are all hanging in this crazy limbo land, a purgatory of wait-and-see-and-wait-some-more.
Do you remember in the Before Times, all that stuff we’d previously been aspiring to embrace? All those books about living in the present moment and the power of now?
This has been almost two years of being in only this moment. No plans. No future thinking, just be here now and guess what?
It sucks.
Turns out that there’s a reason humans like to think about tomorrow…as it kind of presumes there will be one.
Granted, deep down we always knew that was a crazy construct too. With all our calendars and appointments, we were always pretending we had a modicum of control over our futures. As if Death was something that happened only to other people.
This pandemic has slapped us with the brutal reminder that we are not in control.
At all. Never were and really truly are not now.
I know, I know. It’s a reach. But isn’t that we do? Attach and attribute meaning to the random chaos of our lives so it feels like there’s some sort of overarching narrative? So here it is. We are moving, at dizzying glacial speed, away from how our lives used to be and settling into how our lives are now. Our worlds, collectively and singularly, are being upended and thrown into brand new configurations. This isn’t all bad because apparently, and quite obviously, how we’ve been doing it up until now is not at all sustainable. There is that.
Further and further from things that we’ve done
Leaving them one by one
I have also created more art during this pandemic than all my previous years combined.
And, like so many others, since travel was no longer an option, we finally felt like we could manage having a dog again…which has brought us both so much silliness and joy.
I recently read something about growing older that likened our lives to starting out as a spring, then a fast-running stream, and eventually widening into a slower-moving river that ultimately meets the sea. I like that idea.
We passed by the old willow tree
Where lovers caress as we sing them our song,
Rejoicing together when we greet the sea
Leaving them one by one
And we have just begun, watching the river run
Listening and learning and yearning to run, river, run
We’ll if this hasn’t”t spurred on all the choir members to connect tonight then I don’t know what will!!!
Thanks Colleen😉
Louise, and now I can never NOT show up. I might have painted myself into a corner 🙂
Wow – poignant, relevant, accurate, insightful and yes, tear-evoking. Cheers to virtual choir, to zoom, to mask-free gatherings where we don’t have to be out in the -20 degree cold, and to thousand-piece puzzles. So appreciate you, my friend.
Kirstin. This pandemic is kind of like the ultimate crucible. It has burned away all the superfluous and revealed who and what matters. Friendship and community are at the top of that list. Bless you my friend.
Thank you for this! A beautiful reminder that we’re all in this together.
Thanks Christine.
I have to write these things to keep reminding myself too. We’re getting through this…
I like the use of “Goundhog Day” to describe our current lives. Yes, it has been a bit like this for the last 22 months. We have lived in our own bubble trying to reach out, to connect with other people, through phone, emails and yes, Zoom but none of these replace face to face contact. I like the comparison of life with a river flowing to the sea. The pandemic has given us time to reflect on our journey. You never know what is going to happen next. For you, stopping travelling has brought Baxter into your life and allowed you to paint more.
Thanks Catherine. It certainly is true that we don’t know what’s going to happen next. I would never wish for a crystal ball for the future. It’s enough to live it, both the ups and the downs.
And yes, it really does feel like we’re all learning to really look at how we’re living. I’m so grateful for being able to create art and Baxter is a daily ridiculous reminder to be joyful at being alive. It’s such a gift. Take good care.
This is such a perfect piece of writing, Colleen. Thank you for finding the words and images that touch our hearts and souls. 🙏🙏
Thank you so much Sophie. It means so much to hear from you. I hope we can get together again.
I’ll get to the puzzle soon as I fix the bloody table leg.
But I hear you.
Hey Rand, you’re a handy can-do fixit kind of guy so fix the table leg already.
Happy singing.
Beautiful. Tears are leaking out of my eyes too. I can relate. I’m grateful you wrote and shared these words “watching the River Run. 🥰 I also have a 1000 piece puzzle on my table. Davina
Oh Davina. I’m glad I’m in good company. I think too many of us have puzzles on our tables, trying desperately to piece our lives back together.