Or, why I haven’t taken a singing lesson in thirty years.
Last week after our kids were in bed, my wife and I were in the kitchen and I told her, again, that I sometimes think about taking singing lessons. I said it, casually, the way you mention something you’re not going to do. She listened. We’ve had this conversation a few times.
I haven’t taken the lesson. I haven’t picked the song I’d want to sing. Honestly. . . I haven’t picked any song.
Around the Piano
When I was a kid, I loved to sing. My mom would gather us around the piano and play, and we’d sing along. I thought every family did this. I thought it was something kids and parents simply did together.
My grandparents made it bigger. My grandma wrote music and played the piano masterfully. And, my grandpa sang in churches across southeastern Utah, and some people said his voice rivaled that of Sinatra. I loved sitting in their living room, listening to my grandma play and my grandpa sing. Some of the most tender moments of my childhood are around that piano.
The Audition
In sixth grade, I tried out for the traveling choir. I thought I was a shoo-in. After all, I loved singing, and I came from a family that could sing. I didn’t make it.
That was the end of my singing career.
After the Audition
A year later we moved to Moab. It was a smaller community, with more opportunities to participate in school activities. I could have tried out for everything. I didn’t. By then I had decided I wasn’t a singer. The audition had told me, and, quite frankly, I had agreed. By seventh grade I wasn’t even letting myself try.
The verdict didn’t just stop me from singing one time. It restructured what I was willing to want.
Thirty years of not really singing. Sure, I sing in the car. I sing at church. But, never in the choir. I never audition or let anyone listen on purpose. More often, I make a joke about my inability to sing. My sister has more musical talent in her left pinky than I have in my whole body. I’ve said that line so many times I almost believe it.
And Yet
Sometimes I think about taking singing lessons. I’ve told my wife about it more than once. She knows. It comes up enough that she’s stopped being surprised by it.
But I have never picked a song. Not even in my head. The thought lives at the level of lessons. Never at the level of a particular song, the one I would want to be able to sing.
That’s what buried yearning looks like. You keep it abstract enough that it can’t disappoint you.
The Reasonable Answer
When I think about why I don’t do it, the answer comes out reasonable. I should put my energy elsewhere. There are things only I can do for the people who depend on me. There are talents I have that actually bless people. Nobody would want to hear me sing now anyway. A man my age, taking lessons for something he isn’t going to be good at, is wasting his time.
You see how logical that sounds?
It’s the same protective move as the audition, dressed up as maturity. The eleven-year-old learned that wanting something meaningful and not getting it hurts. And the grown man? He found a way to bury that desire. He says, “I’m only worthy of my own time if I’m using it to serve someone else.”
The Side Effect
My grandparents weren’t trying to bless anyone. They were doing it because they loved it. She played because she had been playing her whole life. He sang because his voice wanted to come out of him. The blessing was a side effect.
I was a kid in that room, being blessed by people who weren’t doing it for me. They were doing it purely for the enjoyment. And, that joy spilled over. It can’t be manufactured. It only comes naturally.
Honestly, I still don’t know what I’m going to do with this thought. I’m not telling you I scheduled the lesson because I haven’t. I still have no clue what song I’d even sing.
What I am saying is there’s a question I’ve been holding for thirty years, and it’s not really about singing.
What counts as a legitimate use of your energy? Is joy allowed to count for itself? Or does it always have to bless someone first?
Hi, I’m John!
I’m a father, leader, outdoorsman, and the founder of PathForgeXP. I grew up in Moab, Utah, and I spend most of my time helping fathers reconnect with what matters through wilderness retreats and intentional living. I don’t have this figured out. I’m just a man on the trail, writing about what I’m learning along the way.
