The traveling circus

Lesser known fact about this writer (which, I suppose, won't be lesser known once I post this) is that I sing.

Yes, there are videos out there of a skinny teenager performing under stage lights that'll no doubt suddenly surface should I ever step into a writing realm larger than journalism.

My favourite part was not so much the camaraderie among choir members born out of traveling together and lengthy, frequent, tiring practices pre-concert. And it wasn't so much the performing itself, though that's always fun for the extrovert.

It was the scales, the 20-minute warm-up before we began running through our repertoire. I could always feel the moment my voice was ready to reach the notes demanded. It was an invincible feeling. For several years, singing alto gave me a release as powerful as writing. I once lost my voice for almost two weeks as a teenager and thought it was the end of the world.

But I only confess all this because sometimes I miss singing. Like last Friday.

Worn from the week's work, a friend and I ventured north to the St. Augustine Amphitheatre to see Counting Crows with Michael Franti and Spearhead and Augustana. They rocked the stage that night for almost four hours. We sat and drank, stood and danced, got caught up in the music.

I imagined I could feel the heat of the stage lights, inhale the maple-like smell of the smoke machine, thrive on the crowd's energy. Sing from the diaphragm, the back of the throat, my soul, until all was spent. In that moment, I wanted to be up there, mic in hand, with that familiar feeling of fear and exhileration.

Even when she and I left to wander down St. George Street, when we drifted into a cozy bar and chatted over lambic and beer, part of me was still ruminating about that past life.

I still sing while I cook and drive, when a song or a pretty note hit me, but few people in my life know how important it has been, how indelibly it is linked to my love of music.

I sing for even fewer.