This morning's unexpected collapse certainly qualified as being in a Public Place.
In church, in front of a microphone, trying to help hundreds of people sing the right notes at the right time.
I know, I know, it wasn't a bright plan. The thing is, it wasn't a plan at all. I just wanted to go back to church after a long absence. Honestly, I wasn't going to join in with the singing.
(In case you are wondering about my tales of Buddhist temples: yes, I am at home there too. There are many different ways up the mountain, and I am happy to wander across several paths, or go off the beaten track if needs be. The Catholic road is well-trodden and has the advantage of being used by the rest of the family, which provides a bit of company.)
Ours is a vibrant church with a strong sense of community.The congregation is a kaleidoscopic mixture of people from all over the world (one of the joys of living in London). Sunday morning mass sees women coming in early to exchange gossip in the pews, elderly people with worn bibles and prayer beads, busy parents chasing toddlers along the aisles, teenagers seeking each other's company. It's often standing room only. Our children meet up with friends they made at the primary school next door.
For the past 15 years or so, I have brought along my guitar to help with the music.
Somehow, I have ended up as the unofficial ring leader of a bunch of amateur musicians and a handful of people who sing. You cannot call us a proper band or a choir. It's more of a motley crew. There's a dedicated chap from Jamaica with a guitar, a drum and expertise with the sound system; his calmly supportive wife; a woman from Venezuela at the piano with a recorder-playing son; young women from Spain and Germany who bring a cello and a flute.
The Jamaican musician and myself are the regulars, keeping the show on the road. Others come and go, and we rarely know beforehand who's going to turn up. There are no rehearsals and there is no conductor. We like it that way. It's not a performance, it doesn't matter if things go wrong, and it blends nicely with the crying children.
But it does help if someone has a vague idea when to burst forth, and it also helps (I'm told) of someone sings into the microphone so the people hovering at the back of the church can keep track.
That task falls to me, mostly.
The women huddled in the pew stopped gossiping and grabbed my arm in delight as I walked into church this morning.
We're glad you're back! We've missed you! It hasn't been the same!
Now, I don't know whether that was you as in Irene, or you as in all of you lot. This was the musicians' first Sunday back after a 6 week summer break, and absence makes the heart grow fonder. We always feel most appreciated in September.
I explained that I hadn't come to sing this time. See, I haven't brought my guitar. I'm just here to be here. Haven't been well. But how nice to see you too.
But then I found that there was only the Jamaican guitarist who can't sing and play at the same time, and a couple of singers who need help finding the right starting note. I simply couldn't bear to sit there with them struggling, so I sat myself down in front of the microphone to start them off. "Brothers, sisters, let me serve you..." Never a truer word.
Bad idea, though. What did I think I was? Indispensable or something?
I'd forgotten that singing is as bad as exercising in terms of the need for extra air in the lungs, and this is my worst week for Shortness Of Breath. Think back to the octogenarian-with-heart-condition-effect.
Halfway through the first hymn, the dizziness started.
By the time the second hymn was through, I felt the cold sweat trying and failing to find an escape route through my headscarf. (Is it OK to whip it off in the middle of church? With people already looking and wondering, presumably, what the scarf was all about in the first place, and why I was singing sitting down rather than standing up, guitar-less? Told you. Public Place and no mistake.)
With the tears dangerously close to trickling out (one or two of them escaped), my best plan was to Get Out. Singing the next song would be bad. Not singing the next song would be worse. (People, looking, wondering, etc. Quite apart from the risk of Actual Collapse).
So I made my way past the crawling babies and the people standing around at the back, and went to sit down among the flower pots in the church yard. At least it was secluded. Off came the head scarf (relief, relief for the clammy scalp). Slow went the breathing. And the tears gently sank back down, like mud in a pond quietly clearing after being disturbed.
More songs drifted through the stained glass windows. It sounded fine. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that I Am Not Indispensable.
(Could someone remind me of this, please, when I feel I have to cook hearty meals for my family five nights a week? I'm sure they are just as happy with frozen pizza.)
I left it until the final hymn was safely over before I went back in (scarf back on, smile back on). I did truly want to see the many people who have been thinking of me and praying for me. Everyone has been so kind.
"I was going to come and help out with the singing," said the wonderful young woman with the tear-jerking voice who sings at midday mass (but also comes to our 10 o'clock mass for good measure). "But then I heard you sing and it sounded lovely! How do you do it!" She gave me a huge hug. "I was praying for you last night, and now here you are!"
How can you not feel lifted by people like that?
You are looking really well! they said. Am I? Thank you. (Earrings, eye-liner and multi-coloured clothing undoubtedly helps).
How are you? they asked. Whilst that question has been much easier to answer in recent months, today I was lost for the right words. I wasn't fine. But I was indeed there, and if you'd seen me last week, you wouldn't have thought that possible. So things weren't too bad either.
Today's Sudden Collapse, however, belies my appearance and my genuine smile.
It's very confusing. The brief tears were not so much caused by feeling so weak and tired, but by utter frustration and distress that I am actually not that well. Not really. Not even in a Good Week.
I keep trying, though. Next week, I will feel better - and I'll bring my guitar, even if I have to pass the microphone to someone else.
In church, in front of a microphone, trying to help hundreds of people sing the right notes at the right time.
I know, I know, it wasn't a bright plan. The thing is, it wasn't a plan at all. I just wanted to go back to church after a long absence. Honestly, I wasn't going to join in with the singing.
(In case you are wondering about my tales of Buddhist temples: yes, I am at home there too. There are many different ways up the mountain, and I am happy to wander across several paths, or go off the beaten track if needs be. The Catholic road is well-trodden and has the advantage of being used by the rest of the family, which provides a bit of company.)
Ours is a vibrant church with a strong sense of community.The congregation is a kaleidoscopic mixture of people from all over the world (one of the joys of living in London). Sunday morning mass sees women coming in early to exchange gossip in the pews, elderly people with worn bibles and prayer beads, busy parents chasing toddlers along the aisles, teenagers seeking each other's company. It's often standing room only. Our children meet up with friends they made at the primary school next door.
For the past 15 years or so, I have brought along my guitar to help with the music.
Somehow, I have ended up as the unofficial ring leader of a bunch of amateur musicians and a handful of people who sing. You cannot call us a proper band or a choir. It's more of a motley crew. There's a dedicated chap from Jamaica with a guitar, a drum and expertise with the sound system; his calmly supportive wife; a woman from Venezuela at the piano with a recorder-playing son; young women from Spain and Germany who bring a cello and a flute.
The Jamaican musician and myself are the regulars, keeping the show on the road. Others come and go, and we rarely know beforehand who's going to turn up. There are no rehearsals and there is no conductor. We like it that way. It's not a performance, it doesn't matter if things go wrong, and it blends nicely with the crying children.
But it does help if someone has a vague idea when to burst forth, and it also helps (I'm told) of someone sings into the microphone so the people hovering at the back of the church can keep track.
That task falls to me, mostly.
 |
| Yep, that's me with the guitar, singing in church about a decade ago |
The women huddled in the pew stopped gossiping and grabbed my arm in delight as I walked into church this morning.
We're glad you're back! We've missed you! It hasn't been the same!
Now, I don't know whether that was you as in Irene, or you as in all of you lot. This was the musicians' first Sunday back after a 6 week summer break, and absence makes the heart grow fonder. We always feel most appreciated in September.
I explained that I hadn't come to sing this time. See, I haven't brought my guitar. I'm just here to be here. Haven't been well. But how nice to see you too.
But then I found that there was only the Jamaican guitarist who can't sing and play at the same time, and a couple of singers who need help finding the right starting note. I simply couldn't bear to sit there with them struggling, so I sat myself down in front of the microphone to start them off. "Brothers, sisters, let me serve you..." Never a truer word.
Bad idea, though. What did I think I was? Indispensable or something?
I'd forgotten that singing is as bad as exercising in terms of the need for extra air in the lungs, and this is my worst week for Shortness Of Breath. Think back to the octogenarian-with-heart-condition-effect.
Halfway through the first hymn, the dizziness started.
By the time the second hymn was through, I felt the cold sweat trying and failing to find an escape route through my headscarf. (Is it OK to whip it off in the middle of church? With people already looking and wondering, presumably, what the scarf was all about in the first place, and why I was singing sitting down rather than standing up, guitar-less? Told you. Public Place and no mistake.)
With the tears dangerously close to trickling out (one or two of them escaped), my best plan was to Get Out. Singing the next song would be bad. Not singing the next song would be worse. (People, looking, wondering, etc. Quite apart from the risk of Actual Collapse).
So I made my way past the crawling babies and the people standing around at the back, and went to sit down among the flower pots in the church yard. At least it was secluded. Off came the head scarf (relief, relief for the clammy scalp). Slow went the breathing. And the tears gently sank back down, like mud in a pond quietly clearing after being disturbed.
More songs drifted through the stained glass windows. It sounded fine. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that I Am Not Indispensable.
(Could someone remind me of this, please, when I feel I have to cook hearty meals for my family five nights a week? I'm sure they are just as happy with frozen pizza.)
I left it until the final hymn was safely over before I went back in (scarf back on, smile back on). I did truly want to see the many people who have been thinking of me and praying for me. Everyone has been so kind.
"I was going to come and help out with the singing," said the wonderful young woman with the tear-jerking voice who sings at midday mass (but also comes to our 10 o'clock mass for good measure). "But then I heard you sing and it sounded lovely! How do you do it!" She gave me a huge hug. "I was praying for you last night, and now here you are!"
How can you not feel lifted by people like that?
You are looking really well! they said. Am I? Thank you. (Earrings, eye-liner and multi-coloured clothing undoubtedly helps).
How are you? they asked. Whilst that question has been much easier to answer in recent months, today I was lost for the right words. I wasn't fine. But I was indeed there, and if you'd seen me last week, you wouldn't have thought that possible. So things weren't too bad either.
Today's Sudden Collapse, however, belies my appearance and my genuine smile.
It's very confusing. The brief tears were not so much caused by feeling so weak and tired, but by utter frustration and distress that I am actually not that well. Not really. Not even in a Good Week.
I keep trying, though. Next week, I will feel better - and I'll bring my guitar, even if I have to pass the microphone to someone else.
Thank you for sharing Irene...love Janet
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