Closet Torch Singer?

My wife was out of town last weekend so my routine was suspended. I found myself with an abundance of idle time and the yearning for a little adventure. In past years these ingredients could create a recipe for trouble.

The local 12-Step club hosted a dance on Saturday, a karaoke dance. Now that sounded like an adventure, to stand in public and sing. I had sung karaoke before but only while drunk, to a bunch of other drunks. Then my courage was measured by the shot glass and six of them could propel me to the stage, straining at the high notes of an Elton John ballad. My past karaoke performances had been like shameless, ego-driven cries for attention. "Look at me! I'm doing something special. I AM special!"

As I drove to the club I found myself asking, why do I want to sing karaoke tonight? I wasn't wrestling with self-doubt. I was examining my motives, a thing I have learned to do since living in recovery. I wondered, was I seeking praise and attention? Was I trying to set myself apart from my fellows and demonstrate that I was different, that I was special, somehow better than them?

No, those were not my motives. Had they been I would have turned around and driven home. By the time I parked the car at the club I had begun to understand why I wanted to sing.

Singing is special to me. I have sung all my life. I sing when I am happy and when I am sad, sometimes in a spontaneous outpouring of feelings. It is my most natural and honest means of self-expression. There was a time when singing was the only way I could express myself. As a child, and into my late teens, I stuttered so badly that I tried to avoid speaking altogether. But even during the most troubling of those times I was able to sing without hesitancy. In time, my ability to sing evolved into almost-fluent speech so that today few people appreciate the severity of my handicap.

Singing is my greatest personal pleasure, and among my most private. When I sing I usually am alone. Only the people I love most have heard me sing from my heart.

My drinking years were lonely years. I used alcohol to distance myself from the world and the people around me. But every so often, if I was just drunk and lonely enough, I would seize the opportunity to reach out in the only way I felt comfortable, through singing. Whatever the song's true lyrics, my heart would cry "I am here, I have feelings, please hear me....." Those karaoke nights seldom left me feeling good. At best, I felt unburdened but sad.

Last Saturday night I stood before a room filled with people I had come to think of as brothers and sisters in spirit. I sang for them from my heart. It felt good to hear the words flow from me as easily as my breath. When I finished I felt not just unburdened, but joyous.

I once had thought the ability to sing was just a fortunate accident of nature that gave me pleasure. Now I understand it to be a gift that brings me joy. I believe that any talent I may have is a gift from my Higher Power and that the joy I feel comes from sharing with others.

I sang Saturday night out of gratitude for the many unearned gifts that enrich my life. Among these are the ability to sing, the courage to share my life with others and just to be alive.

Sound corny? I make no apology. This is the reality of my life as I understand it, born of experience, expressed here honestly.