All my life, singing has been the one thing I could count on. From age 5, when I sang my first solo in front of the congregation at Norwood Baptist Church in Ohio, I have known that when I opened my mouth to sing – something pretty decent would come out. I have had obstacles - throat problems, allergies, other things that have affected my voice in distressing ways. But still, I knew that if I had picked the right song in the right key, I could wow almost any audience. Unlike many singers I’ve known – I loved auditions – loved to see the positive looks of appreciation or surprise, with both my big musical theater voice and my quieter ballad singing. It was an absolute in my life – one of the precious few things I could totally depend on – something rare and wonderful that would never abandon me. It defined me – gave me something to feel confident about – made me feel like I was special in a world that was constantly trying to make me wear the label of failure. And when I was singing, the depression – the despair – the loneliness – the sadness and anger – all these burdens disappeared or were lightened for the 3 or 4 or 5 minutes I was actually performing.
I lost my voice for a while due to nodular laryngitis. I didn’t sing for years. Then I started again – different voice – not so big – not so capable – not so impressive. And with time – the gift got smaller and smaller. From an impressive 3 ½ octave range to barely 1 octave now – from a solid high Bb to only a solid middle C…. the gift continued to shrink. With my severely limited voice – I went on sharing my gift with passion and love – and again, as long as I picked the right songs in low keys, I could still get a small “wow” out of an audience. Then my major venue for performing was taken away because of COVID and the conversion of my home church to a ZOOM community. No more weekly singing – no more in-person church services – no more audiences - no more identifying myself as a singer and performer. Then open-heart surgery and an extended recovery that is still going on took even more of a toll. Any tiny hope of being a singer again has pretty much faded away. But if not a singer, who the hell am I? I am devastated by this loss - trying to figure out how, after 63 years of being known for doing something that made me feel so special - how do I find even the slightest desire to redefine the essence of Lori?
And then tonight, as I was singing bedtime songs to my 12-year-old granddaughter Savannah, I had a tiny epiphany. I sang to my children from before they were born until they grew out of wanting bedtime songs – maybe a little beyond that. I have been singing to Sebastian and Savannah since they were in the womb. This means I have been using my voice to entertain, soothe and comfort my children and grandchildren for over 45 years. Someday I hope to be able to continue the tradition with baby Londyn Bella. That’s a really long gig – the longest one I've ever had, and it might go on for years to come!
This is NOT the illustrious Broadway fame and fortune I had hoped for in my early years. It is not the large audiences I used to sing to in my prime or even the smaller audiences of my more recent years. It does not satisfy my yearning for the footlights – for the “Roar of the Greasepaint and Smell of the Crowd” – the feeling I instantly get when I inhale the wondrous scent of actor sweat and freshly painted flats. But I just realized that right now, if I had to choose between having had a successful career on Broadway or sitting on a bed croaking out songs to my sleepy-eyed grandkids, there would be no contest. The spotlight gives such a rush – and I will always have an almost unbearable longing for the stage. But on this Thanksgiving Day, I am reminded how much I need to cherish these real-life moments – not playing a role or performing a song, but real meaningful moments with the ones I love most. I’m deeply grateful for this awareness – grateful for the original musical gifts I was given – grateful to my mother for encouraging me toward using those gifts - grateful for all the musicals and concerts and solos and exciting opportunities I was given - and grateful that I am still able to do this most important thing with my grandkids. If my voice sounds croaky and horrible, the kids don’t really mind, because even if they don’t know it yet – what they hear is not Mawney’s scratchy straining notes, but the familiar lyrics and the unconditional love behind them. I’m not very good at finding the blessing in the midst of the storm, but in this moment, I get it. I really get it.
To anyone who reads this blog, thank you for your time and energy. I hope my words encourage you to look deeply and see the things that really matter – even if they are not the things you always thought were most important. Happy Thanksgiving my friends!
