During my son’s earliest years, we’d ready him for bed while listening to Eric Whitacre’s “Goodnight Moon.”
Every night, the same sweet scene: We’d press play as we dimmed the lights to a warm, peachy glow, and then set about changing his diaper before fastening him into a onesie adorned with trucks, or dots, or stripes, or dinosaurs (my personal favorite)… then we’d rub noses and listen together as the choir skated and soared through this gorgeous arrangement. I’d always sing along gently to the soprano line, to his delight; as he got older, he’d join me on it.
This song was, and is, undeniably ours.
His evening routine has shifted significantly over the years, of course — these days, his music requests heavily feature Michael Jackson and Weird Al, and his clothing often features the likenesses of the Mario Bros. and Lionel Messi — but we still revisit this piece together from time to time.
We still sing the soprano line together, making sure to say goodnight to everything… cows jumping over moons, little houses and kittens… stars, and air.
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Today — Tuesday, September 22 — marks this year’s autumnal equinox. As I explained to my son, an equinox is one of the two days of the year when there are equal amounts of day and night. Equal amounts of light and darkness.
I also explained to him that the autumnal equinox asks us to consider the concept of harvest, as well as balance. The autumnal equinox asks us: What have we grown so far this year? What, of that bounty, should we be carrying forward into the colder, darker months ahead? And what should perhaps be set down, to keep ourselves steady?
My burnout recovery process has asked me to consider these questions, too.
“What have I grown so far this year?” I have grown a whole new relationship with myself. New boundaries. A sense of calm. Comfort in quiet. Comfort in stillness. An unprecedented level of engagement with and enjoyment of writing. Better understanding of myself as a singer — better understanding of who I want to be as a singer. Patience. Acceptance. The wisdom to know that the clarity I’ve achieved thus far does not mean I am “done.” The wisdom to know “done” isn’t “a thing.”
“What should I carry forward?” I should carry forward the sturdier foundation I have built for myself, and the strength I’ve developed in its construction. The habits I’ve adopted around my health, around loving my body, inside and out. The openness that has bloomed within through journaling, through witchy practices, through time spent alone, and often outdoors. Awareness that I am still very much “along the way,” and that arrival isn’t the point anymore.
“What should I set down?” I should set down my need for external validation. My toxic concern with what my life may look like to others. Habits I’d adopted as coping mechanisms, before I was ready to do some soul work. Hurt that anchors. Jealousy that corrodes.
I often explore all of this using my tarot deck — smiling at the messages of guidance that come to me from the cards that organically spill forth in eager communication. Throughout this summer, I’ve found myself frequently encountering the Five of Cups during readings, a card that communicates themes of disappointment and grief.
Initially, whenever I’d gaze upon it, I’d mumble something to the effect of: “Tell me something I don’t know.” But the thing is… the card was doing precisely that.
The image on the Five of Cups card features a cloaked, dejected figure standing on a riverbank, mourning three spilled cups at their feet. But the key to understanding the card’s fullness comes in considering that which the cloaked figure does not — specifically, the two cups behind them that remain upright, and full.
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This morning, I heralded the fall by singing — a solo adaptation of Whitacre’s “Goodnight Moon.”
I met with a dear friend who has been along with me for the vocal-recovery ride through… well, an entire season, as of today. She told me bring “a song that might surprise her” to our latest meet-up — since she primarily knows me as an alto in a gospel choir, the piece felt like a decided departure.
As we got ready to dig in, and she got ready to valiantly, beautifully sight-read the piano part, I explained that in addition to wanting to meet her mandate… I also wanted to do something that grounds me in my own harvest, my own ongoing quest for steadiness, for equilibrium. My own attempt to see all the cups before me.
I wanted a song that allows me to balance the fact that, yes, I am still in recovery, and as such, needing tenderness, and tender things… a song that holds me in being someone who is still fragile, and grieving… a song whose gentleness lets me be upset that so much has toppled over… a song that offers the comfort of warm, far less complicated memories from my child’s precious early days…
And at the same time, I wanted a song to remind myself that I am — as I phrased it to my friend — “at least a little bit ‘that bitch.’” Not perfect, never perfect, but oh so capable and powerful all the same. Capable and powerful despite, and because of.
I wanted a song that allows me to acknowledge the spilled cups, while also paying attention to the cups that are still upright at my feet, filled with abundance and hope.
A song that tells me, through the singing of it: My gifts are still mine to enjoy and explore, even if there has been pain and fatigue surrounding the use of them in recent memory. Even if that strain resulted in losses that remain hard to hold and process.
As winter begins to approach, and life grows slowly darker… and quieter, still… I can allow my gifts’ continued existence to offer me some brightness. I can increasingly hold the light, and the dark, of singing. I can acknowledge that my relationship with my voice is now more complex — and I can let that be a good thing, a thing that can elevate what I do and who I am, if I only give myself over to it.
I can continue to be aware of the spills, the mess, the imperfections, the frustration that comes with feeling inert… and set down messages that tell me these things make me lesser than. Unworthy.
I can hold the pain I know, and the hopeful idea of what I may find when I look around with clarity. I can say goodnight to the kittens and the stars, the tangible and the enigmatic… and carry forward some of both, as I slip into dreaming.
