a singing soul

Each and every day is a morsel of being and heartfelt doing, so much so that my words clatter around in my head while my insides purr. Granted, the purr has more chainsaw edges when I'm worried about health issues - such as has been my mixed bag o' mental tricks since the 3/24 biopsy. Sometimes I am less than aware of my anxiety levels until they whsssssssh out of me like a pricked balloon. I can invoke Christ's peace over and over, and His Grace will follow me. Some days are better than others, and I am finding more and more of them here in this blessed place.

Today my friend Bruno and I, along with his two elder spaniels "Kima" and "Tashi," drove to the Logie Steading and walked alongside Randolph's Leap, a scenic spot along the rushing River Findhorn. It was memorable as well since the Findhorn Foundation's Experience Weeks always go there. I had last been in 1991. We walked and caught up with one another, watching our feet on the narrow paths with hardened tree roots weaving throughout. When we last visited in the summer of 2007, his wife of nearly 50 years and my friend Paula was alive. By December of that year she was not. 

I tend to live by lists. This is what I'm going to do.... and then, intentions polished and prayers pumping, I go for it. I try to do this one day at a time. I try not to give up but watch resistances and discern whether they're Diane-generated or fall under the auspices of the shit happens portion of our show. One of my intentions was to find a Church choir. Not singing is not an option for me, another of the many reasons that being hospitalized really sucked. 

So I thought, I must find a choir. 

Surprise: They found me. 

After having attended several Holy Week services at St. John the Evangelist in Forres, unceremoniously missing Easter DAY (!) after the late night Easter Vigil, I returned last Sunday. Here in the UK, you have to be a little on the pushy side to get a hymnal which includes music. St. Paul's, I'm not kidding! Most of the hymnals have only the words. Evidently this is a highly evolved society where the congregation is expected to memorize the music. Kick me. I would ask for what I learned was called the "choir version." I could then sing alto or soprano depending on my mood and whether the hymn was even familiar, most of which have not been. Last Sunday, the priest in charge asked if I'd like to join the choir as they were a little low in numbers. Zing! Instant choir member! 

I try not to wear a neon sign moaning, "I know I'm not a genius and I am SO sorry." I try to suit up and show up and do my best. That said, my musical forte lies in practice. I sight-sing cold about as well as I swim (cue visual of fish flopping on dry land). However, birds gotta fly and I did my best. While singing alto for the most part in the Chancel Choir at St. Paul's in San Rafael (I miss you guys!!), my vocal coach and I knew that my range extended to soprano - I just had to get over myself. "What part do you sing?" the St. John's organist/choir director asked. "Alto or soprano - whatever you need." I sang soprano. I didn't do perfectly by a long shot Sunday morning but I was SO happy to be on the right side of the rood screen if they would've had one.

I walk, I sing, I worship, I cook, I revisit dear friends. When I walk I hear the birds and sheep; I watch the little lambs ricochet leap in the fields like fluffball wind-up toys. The bleats and baaaa's ask to be recorded, except it's the beingness that is so enchanting. Ever had one of those CDs with a thunderstorm on it, or ocean waves breaking? Right. Sexy as a door post. 

Being here is a gift.