Ave Dominum

Here it is... the music in my head. The music I hum in the shower, the music I sing under my breath when I'm walking. I tumble Latin words over my tongue, sounding like some crazy priestess whispering her benedictus.





These fall afternoons find me looking out the window of the train, watching the city fade behind me as I slide into the posh and sparkling suburbs. Over and over I listen to my own voice, often surprised at it's volume, it's height. When did I learn to sing like this? Why haven't I been using this voice more often?





Heidi encourages me to "do something" with my voice. I'm flabbergasted. And suddenly shy.


But I do know that the notes fall over my brain like drops of water. I open my mouth not to sing, but to release this breath, this vibration. I understand the music and the words, like they've always been a part of me.


Heidi talked today in our lesson about music and theater being a temporal art-- that is, an art form that takes place in time. As opposed to something like sculpture, which is an art form that takes place in space. I like the idea of holding time, of exploring it's elasticity and mobility. I like the idea of slowing time. I like the thought of this conduit, these notes held shimmering in the air, this transference of time and thought.

But mostly I just like to sing. I am a willing prisoner of this Ave.