Which came first, memory or voice?
Early in life, you find certain voices that speak to, nourish and guide you. What I always remember about my childhood is my grandmother whispering to me, telling me secrets, dreams, and about the old country.
When you become a singer, you find your voice in whatever it is that stirs the house of your heart. In mine I hear:
Floorboards creaking, the way they ache.
The steely timbre of thunder rattling the walls.
The tap, tap of rain on the roof.
Perfect sunlight angling into my little studio, fingering the house with its own acoustics.
Twilight sobbing down the side of a solitary barn out back.
A rhythm in my own breath that says I’m living.
* * *
It’s a niagra of sounds, it’s any sound that shares my hunger, my thirst all day to hear and sing more.
Maybe you hear a song, maybe you don’t; it’s a choice we all make. I’ve lived in many houses and left remnants of song in every one of them.