Sewing machine leg

is it contagious?

photo crtsy: Charles Parker @pixels

Don't know about you, but junior high was a study on the invisible man. Can you relate? Figuring out who you were, who you were supposed to be, who you weren't supposed to be; of course it was alot.

In elementary school it had been a bit easier, just do what you're told and keep your head down. Junior high required a whole nother skill set, but the app store was closed.

Fortunately, I shared the dilemma with another equally bewildered classmate; let's call him Ben. So as Ben and I considered the weighty options for our glorious future, there were the predictable options; English (don't we speak English?); math, (make change for a dollar-check); Biology (cutting up frogs—mebbe next year), and Chorus. Chorus, what's that? I asked Ben.

‘I think it's like Study Hall, you know in the big music room. Everybody's signing up. The teacher is cool.’

‘Man, let's go!’ was my obvious reply. Next thing we know, we were filing into the ‘big chorus room’.

So the music room is wide, holds maybe 50ish, flip down seats, essentially four tiers with the bottom level including the teachers desk. A solitary, well worn, yellow upright piano is also there, and sheepishly tries to hide from the attention. The green tiled floor has given up trying to hold itself down, and some students pick up souvenir pieces.

As we survey our fate in this crowd, Ms. B.(we'll call her), begins to corral the motley crowd. Now Ms. B. is youngish in the adult world. Sure, there are teachers from the war, but Ms. B. isn't cut from that cloth. She jokes with us, laughs at our humor and even looks at us in non life-threatening ways. Is she a real teacher?

In a minute she's asking us bizarre questions; how many basses; where are the sopranos, altos? We quizzicallly look at each other. Some students know these answers and are shifted into their designated levels.

Honestly the movement, the interaction, the fun was disarming us. What was happening here?

In the days and weeks to follow, we found ourselves pianoside with Ms. B. She accompanied, encouraged, and was totally taken with our meager voices. Ahh, but she was not content. She delved into the hidden arts of belly breathing, singing from your gut—your diaphragm. Who knew one had a diaphragm and you could sing with it!!

Ms. B. was so cool, we would practice forging her name so we could roam the halls with an illegal hall pass. She had a whimsical style of writing, combining print and cursive when signing her name. When we showed her our practice, she would give feedback on our progress. ‘That's pretty good, maybe work on that N there.’

One session at the piano, my leg was bobbing it's normal rhythm, bouncing on it’s toes. ‘You’ve got a sewing machine leg,’ she candidly remarked. I cocked my head. ‘You keep time with your leg instead of tapping your foot.’ It almost brings me to tears, her noticing those little things that made us different. I was a tense, anxious, socially awkward introvert but this young woman was unpackaging us. She noticed me. She noticed all of us.

Next thing we knew, we were following our parts, jumping in with the chorus and just having as good a time a junior high, kid could have.

We went through our winter concert, attentively following our conductor and new found friend and apparent ally in this awkward season.

Next year, then two passed, and she invited me into the Chorale. . . and I was amazed, singing with the ‘real singers’. It was alot of fun. One of the girls thought I had a good voice. (😊)

The Christmas Concert passed. Later there was a spring one as well. Many of us seem to have found our voice, and we weren't even looking!

Over the seasons, Ms. B. too, was listening. She listened at hearts as well. Sometimes a heart has a message to tell.

For one particular concert, Ms. B. chose or asked a particular girl if she would sing . . . a solo. I don't know who chose the song, maybe the girl's mom influenced her as well. My classmate was a shy soul; you only knew her as quiet and kind. She seemed imperceptible in our oft-boisterous class.

The night of this concert arrived. We sang through lighthearted songs, and the audience relaxed into the joy. Ms. B. was weaving her gift. Then time paused. Gentle accompaniment began and the quiet one began to sing.

Her soothing voice stepped into the atmosphere. It spoke things to deep places, places we would need help in, guidance for days yet unwalked, then settled like a sand blanket, like glory upon our souls. It’s work done, it lifted as morning mist, leaving the air rarified. That song and moment I still hear, still calls to me across time, when life gets too hard.

Next thing we knew, high school was winding down. All of our sit downs with Ms. B. were quietly ending before we realized what had happened. We shuffled quietly into the world, without any fanfare.

I cannot say exactly what wooed Ms. B. into our ‘Chorus Room’. We were a bunch of stray keys, unattached and free floating. She took conversations, and turned them into notes. She fitted us together as neatly as a craftsman dropping piano keys into slots. She had honed our skills as covertly as a spy.

Today in this world, we practice our voices. Alot of dissonance there. Voices bouncing off one another. Word cacophony. It's become our default.

We started our journey with I can't possibly sing . . . let alone with someone! Then Ms. B. just paired us up, matter of fact like. What is the song? I like it, you like it, and here we are singing it--just that simple.

I think Ms. B. was teaching strategy; a different kind of art of war, that we’d someday need, and that is—you have a voice, a song that you carry. It is just yours. You have to find it. You have to let it out.

Secondly, others have a song for you. We have to be listening. That unexpected person. We have to pay attention. Because songs lift, they carry journey. We need them and others are the vehicle.

We had thought it was just an old piano but maybe it more a sewing machine, our voices thread, and Ms. B. was about to stitch our hearts one to another . . .

and sewing machine leg, is a thing. . .

and the best kind of contagious.

🎶