I’m humming an old hymn in the kitchen.
My grandmother used to sing as she worked about the house. There were times in my life when she served as my grandmother and mother, and she sang. Words came about, or just a melody through concentrating lips.
I’m humming in my own static today. Though I follow the hours and dates from my point A to my current point on a timeline, I feel some areas of my life have stretched thin and other areas of my life have stretched long. Life isn’t linear.
In addition to my linearly calculated life, my life topography is varied, as any living place should be.
I have to admit I’m airborn, aloft of my own tension. The turbulence isn’t comfortable within twenty feet. The male dog startles when I stand and the female gives a stress yawn if I sit long. The deaf cat pats my arm with his left forepaw, standing upright with me as his brace; he’s asking me to rest a while with him.
And in the kitchen I sing, “This is the day that the Lord hath made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.” My ears hear my own voice and my heart hears my grandmother’s. I am not in a rejoicing mood. Nor am I religious.
Perhaps words set to the tune of voice were a reminder at times of duress. I am alive to sing and in some way I–Will–Be–Glad.