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The richness of the moment

Modifié le : 2019/08/04

I keep singing, went out last night, hap­py with my class. I don’t know if I’m real­ly mak­ing progress, but this learn­ing is in the air of my time, fit­ting very well in this sea­son of my life.

How­ev­er, my teacher remarked to me yes­ter­day that I did­n’t seem quite there that I was­n’t get­ting much excit­ed or that my voice was off. I sug­gest­ed that I fight, and it’s true, against a cold, or against the virus­es that are run­ning around, that I was a lit­tle dizzy. He replied that I should take advan­tage of this imbal­ance to move for­ward. I laughed. If you only knew, Mr. Pro­fes­sor, how a syn­chro­nous ocean moves in me with ver­ti­go, hap­pi­ness, and anguish.

I start­ed read­ing Phi from the hand­some and artic­u­lat­ed Tononi. Is it pre­cise­ly syn­chronic­i­ty if my teacher tells me about Anto­nio Sacks (Musi­cophil­ia) when this author appears on the cov­er four of Tonon­i’s book ? Did Vin­cent sim­ply go to the Ama­zon page on my Face­book pro­file yes­ter­day and see that he will rec­og­nize this author ? I don’t know, I like to play with coincidence.

My teacher repeat­ed to me yes­ter­day that every note, even in exer­cise and vocal work, must be sung as if it were of the utmost impor­tance. Did­n’t this lady Carel, in her book Ill­ness, say the same thing, as Bud­dha had pre­vi­ous­ly taught, that the present moment is the only one that mat­ters since it is both the past and the future, which are only inven­tions woven by consciousness ?

It is true that, when we focus on this mys­te­ri­ous moment, every­thing becomes more explic­it, more inno­cent, more ter­ri­ble, gen­uine, hon­est, cru­el, and peace­ful. I indeed found my cho­ris­ter friends well scat­tered last Tues­day. I want­ed to express to them what I felt when I sang, I tried to tell them that if they gave them­selves a lit­tle more (what they can sing in fear!), their voice would do beau­ti­ful things.

– You have to be qui­et, espe­cial­ly not to say any­thing, don’t you ? com­ment­ed Vin­cent to whom I was telling the thing.

– We must be silent, I could have answered hon­est­ly because I am not sure of anything.

Vin­cent would undoubt­ed­ly have gri­maced with dis­agree­ment, while smil­ing, with that air of say­ing some­thing he has thought long and hard about.

– Well, no, you found some­thing, I think.

It is true… Even if I am far from hav­ing reached even the first step of a real learn­ing expe­ri­ence, I redis­cov­er, in these singing lessons, the cer­tain­ty of being well in flesh and alive. I have now a will­ing­ness not to remain silent, to do so with­out delay, and with­out the approval of oth­ers. I am cer­tain­ly wait­ing for an answer from a pub­lish­er, I am undoubt­ed­ly jeal­ous when I see on TV this pub­lish­er who has refused my man­u­script. I am what I am, sick­ly to express myself. I wait, indeed… and I sing, I set up my antennas.

I am just an atom in the uni­verse, a small mag­net­ic field, a sim­ple, bare­ly vol­canic note. No won­der I’m so dizzy because any­thing seems pos­si­ble to me.

Win­ter is com­ing, it’s only a pas­sage. My hap­pi­ness comes, I give thanks for the present moment, because I can­not pray otherwise.

I hum as Rose does in Les Mailles san­guines. If you don’t under­stand, you have to do like the cica­da and the ant. Sing and work.

My teacher gave me anoth­er piece to learn. Come away, death. Singing or being in psy­chother­a­py is pret­ty much the same thing.

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