Idaho.

I am not one to walk around the house audibly singing all the time. 

Nope, I am not one of those musicians.  Now…that’s not meant as a stab at those who DO such things.  More likely than not, it is just innate reluctance on my part. 

Well, who really knows what is innate and what’s not?  I am a product of my genes, but also my experiences.  Let’s not start a debate here about nature vs. nurture.

But yeah, I don’t walk around singing all the time.  I never have.  Even as a young teenager, I never sang at home unless the house was completely empty, when I’d blaze recordings of Les Miserables through the family stereo and wail and flail about, each gesture heightened by the mental stage lights that fueled my every move. 

There was safety in the idea that no one was listening or watching.  No one was critiquing.  No feedback other than my own. 

It felt liberating, but also a little…emotionally indulgent.  And I was okay with that kind of raw emotion only in solitude, frankly.  Not sure why.  I’m sure others can relate to this. 

I still do this sometimes.  Even now.  Age hasn’t stopped me from saving these private expressions for when my husband and children are out of the house. 

I sing songs from the Soundtrack of My Life.  That’s what I like to call it. 

This a collection of songs that I connect to, fixate upon, and sometimes just CAN’T leave until they have moved THROUGH me.  Fully and completely.  

And if it’s not obvious…this means I must sing them.  Wail them.  Get them OUT.

Sometimes they stay around for days.  Weeks.  Months.  Years.  And even decades.  But I only sing them when I am alone…not that they ever really leave me. 

I mean, if people are around, I may play one of them on the Bose in the kitchen while we prepare dinner.  Or I may play one while I warm up the car before taking Will to school in the morning.  And if you are talking to me and I seem to be staring blankly, it may be because I am singing one of them silently, sometimes gritting my teeth to the rhythms that no one can hear and carrying the melody on my breath. 

Some selections earn space for their musical merit.  Some for their emotional merit.  But in a sense, each one is vetted by my soul, until it claims its own space.

I make it a practice to analyze their presence…for in this inspection, I try to understand just what it is about THEM that affects me.  And when I do this well, I also look at what part of ME connects to them.

It’s a relationship, right?  They sing.  I sing. We even sing duets.

They are poignant only to me.  Their relevance is personal.  And I like that.

They are My Own Private Idaho…a silent place where all that I AM is held by both love and longing. 

The Lover. The Mother. The Child and the Sage.

The Sleeper. The Seeker. The Failure and the Force.