I am writing less and working on my music. Recently, I’ve created a beautiful new arrangement of my song, “How We Don’t Care.” My father has improved and might soon be released from the hospital back to his facility. Since some of what I’ve been doing musically ties into this story, I am sharing some discussion with my voice teacher here. Clicking the blue links play audio:


When we were older, life was busy and it was hard for me to remember how close we once were. When Cheryl died, it was easy to imagine that she was still alive and simply far away.

Sometime there were “certain moments” when I could hear her voice. Her voice was so recognizable and it was always comforting. I could even hear the cackle in it like when she was young. The smile in her voice was like music and it filled my mind. Then it traveled straight to my heart and spread comfort throughout my body.

Those “certain moments” were fleeting and sparse. But it was always music that could bring Cheryl back to me. I wrote many songs expressing love and friendship, but then there was a certain, painful song. It was a song about deep disappointment and it was very haunting for me. The feelings evoked by my song were very familiar and repeated with many other people in my life.

Even though my song was called “How We Don’t Care” the truth was I cared so much that it was painful. When I had recorded my song the day before, the beauty of the acoustic guitar parts alone caused my heart to soar. The musical of my life continued because when I listened to my song I fell into a state of wonderment.

It was today when I met with a special woman who was going to help me on my journey. This was someone I knew was sent my way, and it reinforced that my journey was amazing and magical. I had even allowed this special woman to see my tears.

When I left the meeting, I was so happy but there wasn’t anyone I felt I wanted to share the experience with. I missed my mother. I contained my joy. But when I listened to my song, the tears began to flow. In my darkened bedroom I cried. It was at that moment that my friend, Cheryl, returned. It became a “certain moment.”

Emotion was something I hadn’t felt for such a long time. Allowing it was very important and I was grateful to feel. Cheryl knew that my tears contained happiness. Her encouraging voice reminded me that I would never be alone anymore. And then, her voice reminded me that I had forgotten about my guitar. After Cheryl’s voice quieted I stood up.

I needed to address the empty space inside. I went into my bathroom and my guitar awaited me. I explored and found new fingerings; beautiful chords began to appear. Beginnings were exciting, and there was no rush. I would discover more later on. As I put away my guitar, the space was no longer as empty.

The phone call I received told me that my father now had sepsis and would be taken to the nearby hospital emergency room by ambulance. He already had pneumonia, as well. I spoke with him before he was transported and he was looking forward to my company. Every minute of my day counted so deeply. With strength and emotional understanding, I left in the summer twilight to go to the hospital.

I visited with him and his pleasure and awareness of my presence was quite beautiful. I shared every detail about my day. My honesty and openess flowed easily and there was no containment. It was very late when I left.

It might have been an emotional day in my musical life but as I walked out of the hospital, I put my arms outward from my body. I imagined I could fly.

© Judy Unger and 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

About Judy

I'm an illustrator by profession. At this juncture in my life, I am pursuing my dream of writing and composing music. Every day of my life is precious!
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