Time to Sing

So there’s this cricket.

He comes to visit every August, and he stays in the wall of my bedroom.  His living room seems to be the window frame by my bed, I think because it is the best place to sing. It is long and slender, almost like an echo chamber.

 

He likes to sing.

Especially at night.

My hearing is pretty sensitive. And I find I am unable to fall asleep while he (or she – we’ve never actually met in person) is serenading me.

So if I have been a little grump lately I apologize. I am not getting as much sleep as usual.

Not to be un-neighborly, but I have tried to convince him to move. I drop essential oils in a small hole in the window frame, which are supposedly too aromatic for the species. I shoot compressed air down the chamber, hoping to convince him a hurricane is approaching and he should take (other) shelter.  I put in an ultrasonic device.

None of these have worked. But I refuse to take more drastic measures. I don’t want to hurt him; I just want him to find another place to sing.

I have also tried ways to co-exist. Noise generators. Ear plugs. These help, but not enough.

I thought perhaps he might be insulted at the lengths I would go to avoid his song. If someone did that while I was singing, I think I would get the hint. But he keeps on singing, even knowing that he is singing to himself.

But it occurred to me this morning that we are the same in this way. He keeps on singing whether anyone is listening. I keep on writing whether anyone is reading.

I’m luckier than he. Once his song is done, it is gone. My words will last a bit. I can’t say how long. But longer than I will, likely. And that is one of the things that keeps me writing.

He is singing now as I write this. And as I am singing in my own way here, I think: “keep singing little one”.

Everyone needs their time to sing.

Comments 2

 
Rosy Cole on Saturday, 12 October 2019 16:35

Permission to sing is a wonderful thing, especially if you are raised in a family that, for strange puritanical reasons, does not hold with it. (Weird, I know.)

But your wistful and amusing piece is like an echo of life itself. Grace triumphant through setbacks, trials and annoyances. A change of heart that turns frustration on its head and opens a door to new Life.

Permission to sing is a wonderful thing, especially if you are raised in a family that, for strange puritanical reasons, does not hold with it. (Weird, I know.) But your wistful and amusing piece is like an echo of life itself. Grace triumphant through setbacks, trials and annoyances. A change of heart that turns frustration on its head and opens a door to new Life.
Stephen Evans on Sunday, 13 October 2019 03:20

My father sang all his life, very nice second tenor voice. He got a ukulele for Christmas once and loved to sing along with it. Probably where I picked it up (singing, not the ukulele).

My father sang all his life, very nice second tenor voice. He got a ukulele for Christmas once and loved to sing along with it. Probably where I picked it up (singing, not the ukulele).
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