Keep Singing
Today I attended a memorial service dedicated to Dr. Janet Morrow King, my former voice teacher at Colorado State University. I studied Vocal Music Performance with her there for 2 years in my mid-twenties. I still regret not finishing the program... but that's another story.
Dr. King passed away last month, and I've been reflecting on what was a pivotal time in my young life, and the legacy she leaves behind.
Janet dedicated her life to music, to teaching, and to the church she loved. I'm just one of literally thousands of people who were touched by her work and heart. She taught me how to sing, really sing, how to find and give oxygen to my true voice.
A lesson I keep reminding myself of. One I hope we all can learn. She walked in quietness and gentleness, discipline, and tenacity. So may we all.
I think I made a point to share her impact on me when I left her teaching, I hope I did. I hope she knew how much she accomplished for so many of us. Along with the old textbooks, sheet music, and concert programs I kept from those days, I also have a memoir she recommended to me that still sits on my bookshelf, A Life of Her Own, by Emilie Carles. Just one of the many little nuggets of wisdom and encouragement she gave me.
I'd like to share a short piece I wrote after I'd learned of her death, reminiscing on those days at CSU.....
(and here's a reminder to go find that favorite teacher of yours, if they're still living, and let them know their work mattered ♥)
Leah
I had no idea what I was doing, and I was pretty scared of meeting you.
Stern, quiet, experienced, uber professional, matronly; practical shoes and a long skirt.
Unkind?
Harsh?
Would you laugh at me?
What was I doing here, at 25, trying to begin to learn to sing?
If I’d hoped to become a professional, it was probably already too late.
My ‘girl with the acoustic guitar’ ways weren’t worth much here in the land of opera.
Your office was on the second floor of the old music building on the Colorado State University campus in Fort Collins.
1930’s-era pale sandstone facades on a curved, elm-lined drive we all called “the Oval”, stately and grand for Colorado kids.
In your room, one large window faced north, not much of a view, dusty university curtains you would never have asked them to replace.
Scant decorations
Linoleum flooring
Wall of bookshelves
Desk
Piano
Music stand
You
and me
Me shaking,
sure I would fail.
Feeling like I was the fool who’d been the star of a Little League team and was now trying to pitch for the Majors.
I handed you my sheet music (THE most basic of classical songs),
memorized because I couldn’t read the notes yet.
You asked if I was ready.
(Of course not), but I squeaked out a ‘yes’.
You played the intro measures, counting me in with your head and shoulders.
Waited for me to sing.
And sing I did, tight and frail and scared,
embarrassed and flushing.
When mercifully the short song finally ended, sweat beading my brow, A- B- A sections tromped clumsily through, I waited for your reaction. Wondered if in your mind you were rolling your eyes, disappointed to have another lackluster student unworthy of your talents, or this music program. Your face betrayed nothing. You did not give any praise or any censure.
You simply began.
Began to teach me
how to breathe
how to relax
how to listen to the words I was singing
how to unclench my deepest fears and find out what sounds my heart could make if I let it.
It took us over a year of weekly working,
coaching, reminding, calling me to bravery, enforcing that I practice.
And practice I did.
Finding places deep in the music building’s basement where I could forget that quiet was my default setting.
Learning that I wanted to sing.
Loud.
Strong.
With life and vibrato and emotion.
With power.
I stumbled so often, and you were always there to help me over the rocks; breaks in my vocal range, weakness in my infantile grasp of music theory, not so great at time signatures.
Fear of being seen.
Fear of not being seen.
…......................................................................
I remember the day it happened,
the day my voice came out.
We’d been working up to a more serious piece,
one I could share with my fellow students and faculty at the required monthly performances.
I think it was the first time you’d sent me out on my own.
I didn’t feel ready.
I wore a dress that day, tried to look like I believed I could do this.
Already wishing it were over.
Sweating far more than that anyone else I saw.
You sat in the audience, ever quiet, ever solid. Your expressionless eyes fixed on me, holding me.
I took the stage. Tried frantically to remember how to breath, how to relax, how to release my deepest fears, even if I failed. Sure that everyone was just watching my face turn beet red.
The accompanist began the tune, a lilting number that suited me well, but with one powerhouse moment hidden in the middle.
I started shaky, I know I did, but I plastered on a confident smile and kept going.
And somehow, at some point in there- it was happening.
I was Singing.
I had a kind of halfway out-of-body experience where everything shifted and I could hear myself, really hear myself. Hear the voice that was coming out of me. Feel the reverberation through my bones, head to foot, running down into the wooden floorboards beneath me. Clear, controlled and in charge of that moment in time.
I heard me ringing in the room, I saw every eye on me and not displeased.
And I saw your face, ever steady, ever calm.
And your eyes were glowing,
and your cheeks were flushed,
and you were softly smiling.
We found it
together, you and I.
You taught me how,
and I’ve never let it go-
a voice of my own.
