Cringeworthy

I think about some flops I have had that were eeply, painful. I cannot gain fondness for these memories that still have a sting.

The time that I sang rubato so bold, raw, and beautiful in a jazz improvization class with the guitarist following my lead to “Cry Me A River” was amazing.

My eldest was there and got to bear witness to my passionately expressive, well executed version of it.

But, then when the class had our live show, I was not feeling well, one of the last to perform to my song, “Moon River,” and the guitarist played his own rifts for thrill of showing off without connecting with me.

People were ready to go home by then, my throat was constricted, and I was above the audience, rather than singing upward to them in projection.

It was horrible. My ex was there all night waiting and impatient. I had hoped to impress him.

At a later time I asked a fellow peer and a valued instructor to come listen to me in a practice room. Again, my voice seized and I could not perform.

Something about the importance of that moment caused my wild magic to recoil and hide itself.

I was invited to join the choir to keep practicing, but I felt too deeply embarassed..

I look back at those times with chagrin’s cringing and discouraging further efforts