work the craft and listen

Since my daughter moved out a few weeks ago to attend college, I often practice singing in her room. It’s quiet there, away from the rest of the house. The time I spend practicing there knits my heart to hers across the miles—she would sing and practice there, too.

I walk in and prop my phone on her dresser. I adjust the curtains, close the windows. I declare and contain my practice with a timer—to make this effort count. I listen to vocal exercises and the comforting voice of my singing teacher as she leads me through a sequence of movement and sound. Soon I’ve relaxed my shoulders, deepened my breath, and opened my chest and jaw, easing my voice from wherever it rests to presence. Resonance.

Last week, though, I sat at the piano to practice. It’s meditative, to sing scales and long tones. The mind eases, the mind wanders.

Sometimes, the mind notices.

Mouth open, diaphragm engaged—I listened and made tiny adjustments as I sang. I don’t know where I was looking, but one moment I shifted my focus from inside my body to the world around me, and I saw something beautiful on the music stand of my black Baldwin piano.

Shells.

I sat with their arrangement for a moment, my mind imagining the image I could make in black-and-white. But I was engaged in official singing practice. Didn’t the timer say so?

I picked up my phone quickly, composing the photograph I saw in my mind. Later, I slowed down to work the craft and listen. Blurred reflections appeared when I reduced the exposure.

Before the image changed, I’d known that moment was beauty. Knew I had to bow to it.