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Monday, 10 May 2010

Rise Up

I have a dream. Well, I’ve always had this dream and I was reminded of it this morning when I went to a neighbour’s funeral (lovely woman, 62 years married and very happily so). I’m not religious, I rarely step inside a church, but when I’m there all I want is to sing. The church this morning was filled with glorious music as all my favourite hymns were given an airing: Nearer my God to Thee, The Lord is my Sheppard, The Ave Maria, each one delivered in a fine soprano voice that wafted right up to the rafters, effortlessly. And, once again, I was reminded of my dream: to sing all those old faithfulls with a pure unwavering voice.

I can sing. I’ve sung in churches quite a few times. I even surprised myself and sang for a friend’s wedding two years ago in a Kilkenny village church where no one enjoyed the music more than I. Once I opened my mouth, all those hours of practice paid off with a lovely sound that soothed even my sternest critic, me!

So, why don’t I do it more often? Why do I have to be repeatedly reminded of what I’m missing? After all, I’m not shy and I love an audience. It’s as if I file such fripperies away under D only to cross the threshold of a church and have it flood back into my memory banks.

I don’t know if I suffer from fear of failure or maybe there’s some dark voice from the past telling me I’ll never be any good but whatever it is, it’s time to move on. I’ve decided I’m going to stop dreaming and get myself down to choir practice next week where, hopefully, I’ll be welcomed back into the fold. I’ll leave the last word to Virgil who said, "Let us go singing as far as we go: the road will be less tedious."

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