Singing is my Favorite Medicine

My Dad used to sing Buddy Holly songs as he drove. As a teenager, I was both mortified and

amused by his singing. He sang as we drove home from countless sports games, where he

stood on the sidelines and I played on the court or field. One of those nights, I was deep in a

sulky adolescent funk. Nothing was right. I was in seventh grade. I had recently got my period, which had been a mind blowing and unwelcomed surprise to me. And as things sometimes do, everything continued to get worse. During my basketball game, my period had leaked through my gold basketball shorts. Tony, the girl’s basketball coach and owner of the donut shop my Dad frequented every single morning for a plain donut, coffee and a chat, called me out of the game to tell me about this new plot twist to the game. I ran to the bathroom and changed into my sweatpants. I stayed there for what seemed like half of my 13 years but was probably more like a quarter of the game. I finally came out when I had convinced myself that no one else had noticed. Seconds later a red haired boy yelled across the gym, “Hey Brooke, why did you change your pants?” I was mortified but sat down on the bench anyway. I didn’t play for the rest of the game. I sat there like a stone, impenetrable. When I finally got in my Dad’s car I continued to sit in silence. He was the last person I wanted to talk to about what happened. After about a half hour of driving in silence he began to sing. Arms crossed I sunk lower in my seat wishing to be alone. Slowly his singing started to unlock the armor around my heart. His song reminded me that everything was still the same as it always was. My Dad was still singing as he drove because he couldn’t help it. My tragedy was not his, or anyone else’s and actually maybe it didn’t have to be mine either. I let the song take my worries away, at least for a little bit.

Now I think of my Dad’s singing with such deep love and gratitude. He never sang

professionally or ever expressed an interest in singing beyond the house and in the car. But he sang around me all the time. He sang when he was happy. It is something that I didn’t realize at the time connected us. My Dad passed his love of singing on to me and perhaps to his grandchildren whom he never met. I never really considered what all that singing meant or how it might have influenced me. I can see now that his singing taught me how to soothe my worried mind and how to create lightness and contentment out of any moment. How rare it is to discover something new of someone who has passed on. He has been gone for such a long time but I cherish that voice that I can still conjure up in a quiet car ride:

Well that’ll be the day when you say good-bye

That’ll be the day when you make me cry

You say you’re gonna leave

You know it’s a lie

‘Cause that’ll be the day when I die

I am now a little older than my Dad was in that car ride. Instead of a car, I feel as though we

are all on a Ferris Wheel that keeps circling around and around with different people getting on and off. Perspectives are constantly changing. I am now the parent singing around my

teenagers, who roll their eyes and say, “You are so weird.”

Recently I found myself sitting at our worn oak farm table on a Saturday afternoon. Caught in a ray of sun streaming through the south facing windows, everything felt just as it should. The entire afternoon unfurled itself before me with no real plans or lists of things to do. Everyone was home and happily danced in and out of each other’s orbits as I began peruse through some cookbooks, thinking about the magic I could concoct for dinner if I could ever wake from the dreamy October sun that had caught me like a cat. The abundance of life in that moment got me singing. It doesn’t really matter what I am singing. Often the same songs get stuck on repeat. For weeks I had been singing Suzanne by Bermuda Triangle

You love Suzanne and I love you

Where is she now, go and get her

She don’t want you but I do

She makes us lonely here together

As I begin to sing, my shoulder’s drop, my breathing becomes deeper, and I start to slowly

stretch my neck and back. I sit taller. It is like a gust of goodness and well-being sweeps over

me. Singing is my favorite medicine. The effects are subtle but over time I have come to enjoy

the feelings of contentment that splash over me like the gentle lapses of a tropical ocean. It is

not a frigid San Francisco wave knocking me over unaware. This is a contentment I purposely let myself unwind into, as a practice of happiness.

When I am singing everyone in my family knows that I am relaxed and happy. It is a sign post

overhead, reading “all clear, Mama is in a good mood”. In all of my years of singing I can’t

remember ever singing in anger. It is unimaginable. Knowing that singing is a sign of happiness makes me hyper aware of others who are singing. Happening upon someone caught in song draws me closer to them. It feels a little invasive to enter this magical sphere of music they’ve created around themselves but I can’t look away. It is like chancing on a mating dance and song of a rare bird. Is this how I look when I am lost in song? I want to study happy singing until I know it intimately and from afar. What can I learn about myself by watching something so universally true. I can regulate my emotions upon the vibrations of a song.

In the Winter I sing while downhill skiing. The songs I sing while speeding down the mountain

feel instinctual like shivering when someone pulls the little hairs at the base of my neck. It is

involuntary. As I tip my skis downhill and begin my descent, within seconds I am singing out

loud in a state of utter joy. It is as though my internal voice is saying “You are ecstatic ,so sing

God Damn it!” The happiness I feel from careening down the mountain as fast as I can is so big that I need to release the overflow from my body. I am alive in this moment as my lungs, throat and mouth release a song into the mountains like a songbird.

While sometimes a song bubbles forth from moments of joy, there other times when music is

the perfect salve for sadness, stress or anxiety. Last Winter we had a record amount of snow.

Our snowbanks were over 12 feet high at some points. We could no longer shovel the snow

from our driveway as there was nowhere to put it. It was the kind of winter when I wished I

could have all my adventures from home, never having to get in my car and drive.

Unfortunately, life didn’t go on hold for the entire season. My daughter, Maya and I had to go

to San Francisco for her dance audition. We knew a storm was coming and we were hoping to

out drive it. The storm had other plans. As we drove, I could see the clouds puffing their

billowy chests into massive dark forms. The wind was roaring down the mountain toward us

making the car sway back and forth. We should have pulled over and got a hotel room. Maya

was insistent, “We should just keep driving. It won’t be that bad. I will drive.” It was 11:30PM.

Maya was 16 and had only been driving legally for a couple of months. There was no way she

was driving. But I wanted to sleep in my own bed too so I carried onward. A half hour later we

were barely able to see past the pummeling snow and strong winds. There were no other cars

on the road and the wind had made snow drifts across the highway that were making my

minivan with rugged snow tires feel like a sled careening down the road. I drove 20 miles per

hour while white knuckling the steering wheel over the entire pass. When we finally got home, Maya said that I sang for three hours straight. “I did?” I asked. “You were singing something when I fell asleep, then later I woke up in a complete white out and you were singing Lizzo and by the time we got home you were singing Gillian Welch.” Yes, she had fallen asleep in the middle of my panicked driving. It was just me and my songs in a white world of uncertainty. I had little recollection of actually singing but I wasn’t surprised. I was using my best tool for soothing anxiety. We made it through the storm. Singing got us home.

We all know someone who walks around with a song on their tongue. For my bandmate Dave this expression of contentedness sounds like jazz-scatting as he fiddles around with his gear. We know he is happy to be getting ready to play some music. His song brings us all into the happy space of the night with an invitation to relax. His song lets us know that all is good, drop your worries at the door.

When my Maya was a toddler, her unconscious happy singing sounded like a scene from a

Bollywood movie, as she looked out the window at the world going by. She sang “Daca daca

daca daca daca.” I loved to hear her sweet voice ring out. I could see the pleasure on her face as she sang. Her song was bountifully jovial. Maya has always loved to talk but I think

singing these wild sounds was her first love.

My brother used to sing Neil Diamond songs as he was getting ready for a night out. I loved to hear him belt out:

Play it now, play it now

Play it now, my baby

Cracklin’ Rosie, make me smile

His singing created a levity to our house that left us all smiling. We knew he was feeling good

and those vibrations were contagious. Tom’s singing was an uproarious party, like singing in a German bar. The song felt like a tidal wave picking up everyone in the way. You had no choice but to join him in his happy concert, even if you were just listening. I couldn’t help feeling lighter and happier. I would never remember those moments from so long ago if Tom hadn’t been singing. Sometimes the music creates just the right elixir to keep those memories alive.

Some nights after all the lights have been turned out, the kids have been tucked in and I am

cozy under my blankets with a book, I hear Samuel, age 12, singing to himself in his bed. I can never make out the song. It sounds like popcorning notes exploring the borders of his voice.

Imagine Freddy Mercury singing “I see a little silhouetto of a man, Scaramouch, Scaramouch

will you do the Fandango.” It is loud and high pitched.

Samuel is naturally a quiet kid who doesn’t put too many unnecessary words out into the

world. He is thoughtful and intentional with his communication. The juxtaposition of his night

time singing is so wonderfully unconscious and free. The sound of his uninhibited joy is as rare as the song of a secretive warbler in the forest. It makes my whole-body smile. Almost all of Samuel’s singing happens when he is in bed, when he is at rest. All is well for him there. The day is done and his soul is at peace. And like a wanderer in the forest, I stop for a moment to revel in my good luck at hearing this rare sweet song ring out in our sleeping house.