“may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile”
Yesterday I met a man at a coffee shop and we began a conversation over some sheet music for the cello. He told me of his latest adventures, that he was memorizing the lyrics to some songs he would be performing at an Indie Orchestra performance this coming weekend. He had been living on the coast of Oregon for several years when he became fixated with the idea of trying something new and chose singing. He took voice lessons from a woman in the basement of a church, thus his training began. He moved to Austin to live with his sister temporarily and continued his singing and took up learning how to play the guitar while he was here.
We shook hands and he gave me a ticket to the upcoming performance before he left. Nothing seems extraordinary about this story of a free spirit traveling around, trying his hand at untapped talent that lay dormant inside him for years. Seventy-five, to be exact.