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in issue eleven
Scintillations
Playing Boggle
Seduction in the Snow
Curious Rain
The Opposite of Peas
Playing in the Vertical World
Bring on Broadway
(Parents)
Snorkeling Past Fear
You Won't Get Far
In Those Shoes
Legos
Freedom From Five Feet
Chasing Shadows
Mozzarella No More!
Letters FROM
My Younger Self
Moody Girl

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Dandelion, Elm, &
Firefly Faeries
Dog Wearing A Cone
Apples
Sun Petals &
Sprawling Daisy
Poppy Field

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Play With Your Words
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Making Friends
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future issues
Issue 12: Synchronicity
Issue 13: Danger
Issue 14: Home
Issue 15: Transitions

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Okay, I admit it. I haven’t been blessed with a particularly pleasing voice. Its spontaneous changes in key and glaring lack of tune may even strike some as off-putting. But while God did not give me a lovely voice, he did give me plenty of volume. Bouncing-off-the-walls, breaking- the-windows, making-the-dog-howl VOLUME. And do I know how to use it!

My friends will groaningly testify to my penchant for belting out songs at the top of my lungs at the slightest provocation. In the car. At the bank. In the shower. Even as an amusing party trick. Show tunes from Disney musicals are a personal favorite, for the sheer vocal power they allow me to display – everything from ‘Under the Sea’ from The Little Mermaid to ‘Arabian Nights’ from Aladdin. I put my heart and soul into every note, usually to be met with gales of giggles or a stampede for the exit.

Take last week, for instance. It was a miserable day outside – ominous skies, muddy slush spraying everywhere as cars zoomed past, starkly dressed commuters zipping back and forth like ants. Riding up the elevator to my morning meeting, I cheered myself up by singing a couple of verses of ‘Tomorrow,’ from my favorite musical, Annie. “When I’m stuck with a DAAAAAAAAAAAAAY, that’s GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAY, and lone-LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE….” I began enthusiastically. That is, until the elevator came to an abrupt stop three floors before mine and the CEO walked in. Though I’m sure I had stopped singing well before the door opened, I could’ve sworn I could have heard sniggering as I made my exit on the 7^th floor.

Not that a little sniggering has ever stopped me before. I’ve never been one for detached murmuring or subtle lip-synching, no sir. This is full out arm-sweeping, hair-tossing, holding–the-hairdryer-to-my-mouth singing. I’ve even made my family join in my charade, coercing them to stand at the bottom of the staircase pretending to be a crowd of townspeople while I belted out ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina,” a la Evita, over the banister.

To me, singing at the top of my lungs is more than just an amusing way to pass the time. I find it very cathartic to ball up all my cares and worries in the pit of my stomach and then release them into the still air, making every cell in my body zing. It cheers me and empowers me and forces me to see how funny things can be (for it is impossible to keep a straight face with a voice like mine.)

Now, I know I’m no Whitney. I’m not even Britney. I would probably spark a scathing commentary from Simon on American Idol. But even though I don’t have the ability to sing, I do have the ability to enjoy doing it, which is much more important. Who cares if I can’t hit that high note? I’ve got all the attitude I’ll ever need to sing RESPECT right along with Aretha.

So even if the rest of the world shuffles by me quickly avoiding eye contact, or laughs hysterically, or smirks in my direction, I am going to keep on singing because it makes me happy. Just like I fearlessly colored outside the lines as a kid, singing is the one thing I allow myself to do fearlessly.

I say it’s time we bring the pure, unadulterated fun back into life, quality be damned. Stop waiting to be crowned the next Broadway baby, or the future American Idol . If singing makes you happy, bring it on. Just remember to stop before the elevator door opens.