Luminous

On Tuesday, the communications team had our Christmas meal together. At 4pm, we all cleared out, leaving a sign on the door saying we’d be back on Thursday (Wednesday being a holiday), and shared ourselves between cars to drive to Mike’s house.

There are seventeen or so of us altogether, plus a few family members - wife, a father, some impeccably-behaved children – and Mike’s wife and son and a handful of their friends and neighbours who came and went throughout the evening.

It was, quite simply, lovely. The house twinkled with Christmas lights. Late afternoon sunlight filled the room. There was banter and laughter and a meal was shared – a meal of simple pleasures: fresh bread; slow-cooked meat; creamy potatoes; a milky, cinnamony dessert. I poured red wine badly. I chatted and joked in Spanish. After the meal, Mike’s guitar came out and so did the tequila, and everyone joined in singing old Mexican songs. A few songs later, out came the percussion collection – mostly maracas and those big rattly seed pods – and all around the table people picked their own rhythms and added them with enthusiasm. I danced along in my chair with a seed pod in each hand.

As the time passed, I looked around the table and found each person looking different to normal. Some of my colleagues hardly seemed recognisable, their faces quite different, unfamiliar. They were quite simply transfigured. Everyone was happy, enjoying the moment, relaxed with the year slowing to its close and Christmas on its way, contented in familiar, affectionate company. It seemed to me that this gentle, tranquil contentment eased our muscles, smoothed away our workday expressions. It seemed to me that each face was luminous, open, each person lit from within. A glow not just metaphorical but tangible. A fragile, vulnerable light. It was a rare thing, everything being just right for just a little while. Recalling it, I feel the memory already folded away into the soft parts of my heart. It was extraordinary.

As it worked out, I didn’t sing in front of everyone last Friday. I ended up playing a bit of volleyball, in fact until it was too dusky to see the ball, so by the time I got there the set was coming to an end. The bar was terrifyingly full of people, so I was quite relieved, but at the same time I did, in truth, want to sing. I dropped a hint or two, but I wasn’t brave enough to volunteer straight out, in case I wasn’t much good – I wanted to be asked, and I wasn’t.

On Tuesday, I had a second chance, when Mike forced me (willingly, but I couldn’t admit that) to do a song or two. We started out with Both Sides Now. It took ages to get the key right and even so I bottled the high bits – I couldn’t seem to pitch them, disconcerted by the guitar accompaniment and the attentive audience. These bits were quite awful, with the terrible clarity and time passing both too slowly and too quickly of a fear coming true, but the rest came out, at the risk of blowing my own trumpet, quite beautifully. Then we did Baby Can I Hold You by Tracy Chapman, which has no high bits to trip you up, and the bits of Big Yellow Taxi we could remember, with my lovely officemate Allison joining in too.

I am very glad that I faced my fear and rode it out, because when the song comes out like it should, like honey, it is a wonderful feeling. And everyone was so sweet to me, saying lovely things about my voice. It made me feel like, perhaps, I could be a person who sang in front of people sometimes, and that they might enjoy it. I don’t think I have an extraordinary talent or anything, just that sometimes there might be a guitar and a gathering and a song, and me, happy, for a moment a bird, singing with my eyes closed.

We talked about practising sometime, learning a few more songs. And I felt excited, not terrified at all.

[On the other hand, I will be judging the dancing contest in a little over twelve hours’ time. I’m not sure why I’m doing this, since I believe quite strongly that dancing is and should not be a competitive thing. And I’m still quite terrified about that.]