Singing and signing

I get amused by simple things. Things like how easy it is to change context by mixing up the letters in sign and sing.

Spellcheck won’t save you if you get this wrong.

I smile when I read that international dignitaries are coming to sing an agreement. I picture serious people in a room, and then the music starts, and everyone joins in: “Clause one, the party of the first part…” and they sign the whole document, through to the end where the signature page is a duet between the two people signing.

Sometimes I read that a choir is signing, which makes me think it’s an inclusive event for deaf people. Or maybe they’re a famous choir and they will be selling books after the show.

Last night at choir after the break I was talking to the woman sat next to me (we are both Altos but she’s an Alto 2 and I’m an Alto 1. This is no quality indication, it’s a dividing line where we have multiple alto parts.)

“What prompted you to join the choir?” she asked.

“I was reading a book that talked about making a list of five of your childhood ambitions, the ones you had before people told you you couldn’t do that…”

“Is that The Artist’s Way?”

“Yes!”

I don’t know if I have met anyone before who has read The Artist’s Way.

“Did you read it because you want to be a writer?”

“Yes,” I replied, not feeling stupid to admit that for once. (Side thought – I write things all the time, I am a writer.)

“I also wanted to be a writer. Are you doing the morning pages?”

I frowned.

“And are you doing the Artist Dates? I loved that, simple things like looking at fabric in a fabric shop.” Her face lit up when she talked about this.

My face fell.

“No, I haven’t been doing that.”

She nodded. “I did it for a while but it’s hard to keep it up. The same with the morning pages. So how did the Artist’s Way bring you to choir?”

“I always wanted to be a pop star,” I said.

She smiled, but encouragingly, not in an unkind or mocking way. “What else was on your list?”

“Astronaut,” I said, “so I joined the national maritime museum and go to the planetarium and travel through space that way.”

“What else?”

“A marine biologist,” I said. “I thought I might do a scuba diving taster.”

“Or you could go to the seaside and pick through the rockpools?”

Our conversation was interrupted by the ding-ding-ding of the choir leader’s bell bringing us back to attention.

I’ve been thinking about that conversation all night. In particular the childhood ambitions I gave up when I was told it was silly, or I wasn’t tall enough, or I wasn’t pushy enough, or I wasn’t pretty enough, or I wasn’t good enough, or girls don’t do that, or that’s not for people like us.

(This last may not have been expressed in so many words, but it was implied.)

When I got to this exercise in the Artist’s Way, I struggled. I came up with a few ideas (see the three ideas above) but even to come up with five was a challenge. I’d forgotten what I wanted to be. Those ideas and dreams were put to one side, like toys I’d grown out of, no good to me any more.

But I am singing. I’m a singer in a group. Not a pop group, but a group, and I enjoy it, even if a large part of what the altos do is sing one note repeatedly to counterpoint the sopranos. And there are moments when we create a wall of harmony so beautiful it lifts my soul and makes all that rushing about to get to rehearsals by 7pm on a Wednesday worthwhile.

There are signs I’m in the right place singing in this choir. The first was learning ABBA’s “The Name of the Game” in my first term. The second was meeting someone who has read The Artist’s Way and who didn’t look at me like I was mad for chasing my childhood dreams.