For those of you with impeccable taste, who read yesterday’s post, Sittin’ and Smilin’, I am at it again, only one day later. In that piece, I indicated there was little likelihood I’d be going for my Sunday motorcycle ride today, because of the predicted weather. Well, the forecast was accurate and it did do its fair share of rain and I suspect it’s not over yet. I did not take into account this ride was in honor of Big Mark.
All motorcycle groups, regardless of their degree of formality, have some things in common. There is always a rider that is designated as the person, who rides in front. Usually, the order the bikes start out in at the beginning of the day is maintained throughout. Bikers will always pay their respects to a fallen rider, by turning out to honor him or her on a designated day. Today was about honoring Big Mark, who passed away around a year ago and for a bunch of years, he rode with the Sons of Kauai.
I could see how motorcycle riding caught on the way it did in this country. At the end of WWII, a lot of guys came back home, completely ill equipped to deal with civility. Some became steel wheeled cowboys, riding wherever the road took them. Bikers observe a variety of rituals, like knights on bikes and some are outlaws, but not here.
Of course, I wasn’t planning on writing about riding, something I do all too often, but I did forget about the ride. When I wrote yesterday, what I was looking forward to writing about today was voice, the one I searched for when I began writing and the brand new challenge of singing!
I started writing around eight years ago. I am referring to the kind of writing I do now, because for years and years, I had been doing memos and presentations in my hysterically varied career. I never recall laboring over finding the words I needed to make my points. It seemed to come with ease and I took it for granted. It was a completely impersonal kind of communication though, either about buying or selling something or other, from advertising time to Gospel music videos.
When my grandson was only two years old, I got him a makau, a Hawaiian bone, fishing hook. Imagine giving a little kid a sharp hook that could easily take out an eye? I could just see the look on the faces of my son and daughter-in-law! I was so anxious for him to know about his Grandpa Larry, who lived on Kauai and I got ahead of myself for a change. In concert with my friend, Michael, we decided I should write to him and put it with the hook, safely framed, the story tucked behind the frame. I was immediately struck with two thoughts. What the hell would I write to him about and how would I write it?
What I would write ended up coming to me rather quickly. I wanted to tell him all about my life, the first 68 years. I think by the time most of us really care about the lives of our parents and grandparents, they are often gone and short of a handful of stories, there ain’t much left. I got stuck, unable to begin, because I just had no idea what voice to speak in. I wanted to talk to him about my life and my adventures, but I couldn’t hear my words. After wracking my brain, it finally came to me in a rare moment of clarity. I would speak in my own voice, writing the words as if I was simply sharing, just the way I talk all the time. It would be like closing my eyes and listening to the words, as if my much older grandson was magically sitting there with me, sharing my stories. Every one of us has our own unique style of communicating to others. I decided to relax and speak in my own voice. I swear, at the time it did feel like some kind of revelation, but it ended up being easy.
Last week, I took my first singing lesson, because I wanted to know what my voice sounded like. I am totally in love with music and have been my entire life. When some songs come on and no one is around, I will sing, mimicking whomever I am listening to. I can’t sound like Otis Redding, Bruce Springsteen or Bob Dylan. I think if I was in intense pain, I might sound like Dylan, but I seriously doubt it. The idea of harmonizing has always seemed a futile exercise, like anything by Steely Dan. I am actually practicing Fly Me To The Moon right now!
The truth is, it is related to finding my writing groove. As I have gotten older, there is something about the idea of authenticity that follows me around. Who am I? What do I sound like? The adventure into singing has captured my attention this last week. I am practicing vocal exercises and it doesn’t feel at all like speaking. When I write, I speak to myself in a totally familiar voice, without making a sound. Singing feels like learning how to use my voice in an effortless manner, exaggerating vowels, climbing up sound mountains and sliding down the other side, only to rise up again.
I know the idea of finding my voice, whether on paper or in song, is about finding myself and then finding myself again.