Sing, Sing, Sing

However we sing our song, however our life is expressed, we are each a unique and valuable expression of the life force that makes us uniquely ourselves and expresses itself through us.  In recognizing that, in valuing ourselves, we give of ourselves, whatever form that takes. Valuing ourselves, we are better able to access joy and increase our capacity to appreciate life and each other. We are so often taught to be overly serious and to overlook the richness of life, but it is within each of us to bring more beauty into the world. There is an aspect of joy and beauty that permeates even our sorrows, for the sorrow too is an expression of our love, our depth, and our unique aliveness. Appreciation of beauty brings more beauty into the world and helps everyone, not just ourselves. And singing our own unique song encourages others to sing what is theirs to sing.

Here are three poems that sing with encouragement, joy and appreciation, encouraging us to sing our songs.

Prayer – In Praise of Singers

   by Michael Leunig

We give thanks for singers.
All types of singers.
Popular, concert singers and
tuneless singers in the bath.
Whistlers, hummers and those
who sing while they work.
Singers of lullabies; singers of nonsense
and small scraps of melody.
Singers on branches and rooftops.
Morning yodelers and evening warblers.
Singers in seedy nightclubs, singers in the street;

Singers in cathedrals, school halls, grandstands,
back yards, paddocks, bedrooms, corridors,
stairwells and places of echo and resonance.

We give praise to all those who give some small voice
To the everyday joy of the soul.

Amen

Art by Michael Leunig

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Song

by Albert Huffstickler

My brother and I sang and sang
growing up, sang love songs from
operettas, sang pop, sang country
western. We didn’t think about
it, we just sang because we liked
the way the sound came out of us,
didn’t think about the words, just
sang because it felt good to have
music come out of your body and
we tied our feelings to the music
and let it all go like a kite
sailing up, up out of sight. No
use asking us why, we just did
it, just sang and sang. And
sang our way then into another
time where music was scarce and
it was harder to find the music
to tie the feelings to. I don’t
remember when I stopped singing.
Jack stopped when he died, not
forty yet, still a young man.
Tonight I sit and think about time
and music and where people’s lives
go and it’s night and there’s a
small breeze and I think about
people like Pavarotti and Louis
Armstrong and Ray Charles, singers
who can put people’s joy and
sorrow into music and sing it
for them and I believe to my soul
that there is no more wonderful
thing to do in this world than
to sing and that of all the things
in the world a man can do, there
is no more honorable occupation.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I Worried

by Mary Oliver

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And I gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.