ONE MORE STEP

I’m in my seventies. Been around the block a few times. I had a private practice as a therapist for what seems like forever, and I’ve been to therapy myself, tons of times, and I’m wiser and happier, and I’ve done about all the change and healing I can do. Right?

Nope.

A few weeks ago, my voice teacher, a young man who comes to my house and is teaching me solfeggio (an exercise for learning to sight read vocal music), asked, “Is there a song you’d like to learn? Something we could work on?”

“Hmmm.” Five zillion songs whipped through my head. “Do you know ‘I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Face’?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But I’ll find it.”

“Okay,” I told him. But I was puzzled. I didn’t much remember the song and had no idea why I’d named it as one I’d like to learn. But the next day, as I was loading the dishwasher, humming mindlessly, an image came to me from over fifty years ago.

A junior in high school, I’d been assigned, along with the rest of my choral music class, to pick a song, practice it, and perform a solo. I have no idea why, other than I found it romantic, I picked “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face” from My Fair Lady, changed the “Her” to “You”, and thought I could stand up in front of forty some-odd sixteen-year olds and not butcher the song.

When my time came to sing, my throat shrank, along with the rest of me. High, squeaky sounds came out. I saw the pitying looks from my classmates. Even my teacher, Miss Karen Gilfoy, known for her no-nonsense approach, looked embarrassed. I got through the song without throwing up or passing out and somehow made it back to my seat, amid a smattering of weak, obligatory applause. I felt sick.

No surprise that I did not entertain the notion of ever singing in public again. I thought vocalists and choirs were the bee’s knees and admired them for risking possible failure and resulting humiliation, but assumed that kind of courage was for others, not me.

Until a couple of years ago, when I was instructed, via a course on creativity, to “pursue a passion you’ve always wanted to pursue,” and then, as my book review this month says, I “felt the fear and did it anyway” and joined my church choir. And, it was no surprise that, in that choir, and in the new gospel choir that’s formed in the Valley, I’ve had a hard time projecting my voice and a harder time reaching high notes that intimidate me.

Last week, my teacher brought me the sheet music to “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face”. After I warmed up with vocal slides sung through a fat straw, I stood and sang scales, low ones, then mid-range, then high. “Sing like you’re throwing your voice at that window,” my teacher said, and I threw it, and it sounded strong. He kept encouraging me, and I hit some waaayy high notes, and then I began the song, I’ve grown accustomed to your face. It almost makes the day begin…

And when high notes were coming up, I remembered to aim for them. And by golly Eliza, I mostly hit them. And by golly again, I mostly nailed the realll high notes when our choir sang a dramatic rendition of Andre Crouch’s “My Tribute” last Sunday.

I just love it when that happens. It’s a spark and then a deep satisfaction and then gratitude that, with a little determination and a lot of help, it’s never too late to step up an octave.

And that song—I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Face—I sing it to Ed sometimes. Your smiles, your frowns, your ups, your downs… His smile is not obligatory. It’s romantic.

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