This poem is about my mother singing in the kitchen. My mom was a private woman, the kind of person who would say things like, “If you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all” or "“We don’t air our dirty laundry in public” and “You don’t have to be worried or scared about that loud and rolling thunder, its just angels bowling in heaven” and believed anything from chicken pox to flu to a broken heart can be cured with soda crackers and ginger ale. As private as my mother was, she loved to sing and dance. She would spin records in the living room and we’d all do the twist and swing dance in bare feet and pedal pusher pants. She could not carry a tune in a bucket with both hands, and yet she sang - with kitchen radio, with the Italian crooners on the stereo, while sweeping the floor or doing dishes. I thought my mother had the voice of an angel. I mean, how could so much unselfconscious joy be anything but holy? I’m grateful my mother taught me how to look both ways before I crossed the street - even though personally I tend to leap before looking, blundering into all kinds of adventures. But I’m also grateful that she sang, that she closed her eyes and danced. She sang because it came up out of her true heart, and because a song must be sung…one way or another.
Question: Is there someone in your life that inspires or inspired you with their willingness to be authentically who they are? What pushes back against being true to yourself. Was there ever a time when you took the risk of being authentic and you were so glad you were?
Singing In The Kitchen