Living on the outside of your skin

Someone recently asked me what it feels like when I sing.

Singing feels like a lot of things: It is a physical release in which I exhale and a few notes come out. I use my entire body as a musical instrument in collaboration with other instruments or other voices. The resultant air and sound helps to interpret an idea or series of events. It's almost like speaking through a group of specified tones, but with deep breaths trying to carry the legato through a phrase. (read: evenness) Singing high is when I "feel" the sound buzz upwards through my maxillary sinuses to the top of my skull. Singing low is closer to speaking, but with a lot more engagement in my abdominal muscles and the sound still "moving" through my nose and mouth. Those are a few physical aspects, anyway.

The mental or psychological part is difficult to describe. In my answer last night, I alluded to a master class where I performed a Puccini aria for Swedish baritone, Haakan Hagegard. It was simple, Lauretta's aria from "Gianni Schicchi," in which she displays the one moment of sincerity in the entire one-act comedy. Mr. Hagegard said some very poignant things with regard to interpreting the character onstage: one has to act as a puppeteer for herself acting the character. This, he described, helps a performer to get past any mental or physical limitations to singing. Meaning, you have to get past any emotion you might feel for a character so you can portray that character honestly.

I've been thinking about mindfulness a lot lately: physical, emotional, personal. I find that it's helpful to address barriers to goals and everyday pitfalls. It also helps me to be less critical and, instead, more inquisitive and analytical. It helps me to step back and observe. With regard to Ben's recent article, I believe mindfulness is one step towards awareness. Or, you have to be able to view yourself to understand your coexistence with others.