triple threat

Yesterday I had an idea for this newsletter that I think worked out to be about wanting. But sitting outside right now, on a perfect day after a week of sweltering, I'll be honest, it's hard to connect with that. The bluejay is creaking like a door hinge, the pond in the park across the street is giving off a distinctly low tide smell. The dog is passed out in a spot of sun. Some of my wildflowers have toppled over, but a new wave is blooming. It was an envelope of anonymous mixed seeds, so each flower is a surprise.

What's the want that fades away when I'm out here? It was about a kind of peace and ease. Earlier this week someone asked on twitter something along the lines of, If you could invent any technology to fulfill a childhood dream, what would it be? My easy, instant answer: extremely good VR that could let me know what it feels like to dance as a professional ballet dancer. The other night I was explaining to Tanner what an arabesque is, and I lifted my leg behind me—like, a foot off the floor. I knew where it was supposed to go—higher—but that wasn't a thing my body could do. So that VR—what does it feel like to be able to do the things you can imagine? To move like that, in a little bit of flight?

Sometimes I'll dream that I'm singing, but in the dream I can sing, the effortless, full sort of singing that always eluded me no matter how I wanted it. Real singers, they open their mouth and voice just pours out. My mom sings like that, in the car or on stage or singing happy birthday, and when I took voice lessons in college, there were brief moments where I thought, I sound like my mom! That was the peak, for me, in brief flashes. But I could never close that gap between where I wanted my voice to be and where it was. I don't even mean in quality—I'd know what the right note was, open my mouth, and all I could do was hope for the best.

I've sung more this year than I have at any time since college (when I was acting and conned my way into a few musicals). Every night to Miles at bedtime, in the car with him and Raffi, and lately even more in the car by myself. I'm not running scales or anything, but I'm vain and listening to myself and hoping I sound nice. I know singing takes work—dancing, of course, too—but I wish I knew what it felt like to have done enough work, and be lucky enough, for it to feel easy.

Of course, that's supposed to be where I am with writing. A professional. Lucky enough and practiced enough for ease. If the level of ease I feel is what ballet dancers feel, then maybe I don't want that imaginary VR, heyo! No, I mean, I do like writing, when it's easy and when it's hard. But writing's in my brain and, let's observe, the singing and dancing I dream of would be in my body. (Or is it that they'd have allowed me to dream of a career in musical theatre that I knew was never in reach?)

The thing is, the magic doesn't have to be easy. I took a weightlifting class a few summers ago, and it felt like choreography, but with a heavy bar over your head. (I loved it.) You learn the steps and all the components of the movement, you practice and get stronger and stronger, and then you take a deep breath and fling the bar over your head and hope each part of you ends up in the right place. Which is everything in life, I suppose, but I especially liked it when it was literal.

It's not quite flow—I don't want to lose myself. I like to feel my muscles working, I want to feel my sinuses vibrating with a note. I think it would feel good.