I believe we are always singing, somehow. Perhaps it*s just the accompaniment that changes.
In his collection of Bengali poems, Gitanjali,
Rabindranath Tagore writes that the song he wanted to sing has never happened
because he has spent his days 'stringing and unstringing' his instrument.
Source: Joyce Rupp, OSM, May I Have This Dance? (courtesy of Inward/Outward.org)
I played guitar for years.
Now it sits upstairs behind the chair.
Sometimes,
Not very often,
I pick it up.
My heart has things
It wants to express.
Of course the guitar
Is always
Out of tune.
Most of the time I spend
Getting it to a place
I can play
Again.
Then my fingers
Remind me,
I have not played
For years.
They have not retained
Their callus.
My fingers are soft.
The strings leave dents.
Still I sing.
I dreamed I bought a flute
In Iceland.
I planned to learn to play
On my way home.
I returned
Flute in hand.
I do not know the first thing
About flutes.
I imagine I play anyway.
I have a vivid imagination.
There is music
In my bones.
My heart has things
It wants to express.
There is music
In my heart.
Still no callus
On my fingers.
