My voice lesson teaches more than singing

Every Wednesday morning for half an hour I take singing lessons at Carol Tingle’s cozy studio in Santa Monica. Climbing the stairs, I let go of my to-do list, quiet my monkey brain that swings among the tortured vines of obligations and annoyances and picture myself on stage at the Gardenia, an intimate cabaret in West Hollywood where I will have my never-too-late singing debut.

Carol always greets me with a hug and a warm smile. Her studio is a space filled with musical and operatic scores, an acoustic piano and an electronic keyboard that changes song keys with a flip of the switch. Photographs of her young (twenty- and thirtysomething) students winning prizes at local and international competitions are displayed everywhere. At 64, I am an anomaly among her young and talented students and after two years of study I still consider myself a novice.

Every lesson begins with a warm-up: first, scales to exercise my head voice, a place where sopranos feel comfortable, and then I drop down into my chest voice. That is where I often end up with the “croakies,” half-human, half-beast sounds that Carrie makes in the Stephen King horror movie of the same name.

If I am tired, if I have breathed in too much of L.A.’s dust or the air is dry, if I have had milk with my cereal, it all shows up. Singing puts me in touch with my body and my mind.

Carol tells me, “You need to use all parts of your voice. Just relax. Don’t force the notes. Breathe from your belly.” You can see why singing is so therapeutic. How often I take shallow breaths or forget to breathe altogether. No wonder I feel lightheaded.

After 15 minutes going up and down scales, the warm-up is over, and I get to sing. As a writer, I am in love with lyrics. And the music makes the words easy to remember. I read somewhere that patients suffering memory loss can still recall songs from long ago and far away. When my mother was 90 and suffering from dementia, she could still remember every word of “Just One of Those Things,” a Cole Porter classic that she and my father danced to at their wedding in 1941. Sitting by her bed, we sang that song over and over again to wash away her confusion and pain.

Right now, I am working on “I Got Lost in His Arms,” from Irving Berlin’s “Annie Get Your Gun.” I brave the low notes and whisper some of the lyrics to convey the feelings of a woman who accidentally finds love, lets go of all her lifelines and succumbs to the magic of a man “whose arms held me fast/and broke the fall.” It’s not Ethel Merman; it’s me.

Carol says, “You have a special gift. You understand the meaning of the lyrics. This is something that cannot be taught.” Yes, in 64 years I have been there.

It is 10:30 and my lesson is over. I feel euphoric, not unlike being in love. I wish I could stay longer but my voice is giving out. Carol hands me a CD of our lesson. “Listen to your voice. Don’t judge it,” she says. As in singing, so in life. And for my 65th birthday, I might just be ready for the Gardenia.

Loren Stephens’ personal essays have appeared in literary journals and newspapers throughout the country. She can be reached at www.writewisdom.com.

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