September 15, 2021

We play music here sometimes, perched carefully upon a float fastened to a bulkhead or set at the end of a long dock, upon the Salish Sea. Real estate is always limited for us three and all our gear, but the view is worth every moment.

There are three of us—a trio—Songbird we call ourselves.

Last summer there were several gigs, on different bays around the island. During one windy performance upon the waters I typically swim, a large gust came through blowing lead sheets into the water. We madly dashed about like startled seagulls, belly laughing with relief that only paper went overboard.

Sound travels far across the water, and our music went I don’t know where, but far enough to leave us feeling full and light and lucky every time, and bringing in listeners out of the shadows, out of their houses, out of their heads. For a moment, maybe two. Songbird Sirens we were.

This summer we set up stage a few times upon small floats, including our most recent one in Eagle Harbor.

A boy had a birthday, there was chocolate cake and boats paddling by, cool-as-cucumber teenagers, and a few humming outboards carrying curious people by in life vests and sunglasses.

Autumn waited in the wispy clouds, just out of sight, hovering like the seal that appeared from time to time to look upon us humans plucking strings, raising our voices in song.

A rainbow of kayaks, full with smiling friends, banded together at the end of the float while we pushed out song after song, leaning into lyrics and melodies as familiar as the sight of seaweed and wind upon the water.

I marveled at how very lucky we all were to be so near the water, upon the water, with the water, making music. A few children splashed in the water behind us while we played, cavorting like young ducks, quacking and calling. If it hadn’t been for my guitar and the setlist, I would have joined them in a hot minute. The water was perfect.

I lost a few lyrics, chords even, as I gazed in wonder out over the harbor, my eyes catching the slick head of a seal. Our job was to sing, perform, entertain —and we did as best we could. This dock gig was to celebrate life and friends and music upon the Salish Sea.

Every performance is unique, is guaranteed to bring a surprise, a challenge, reminding us three and all who listen that music, like life, is achingly beautiful and exquisite because of the imperfections. I write this as I recall my voice cracking in a brief second, when the water looked the most inviting—an escape from myself. My fragile self embarrassed to expose a vocal imperfection. How silly.

It was all I could do to not lose myself entirely, especially at the reappearing sight of the seal —and hold back from pulling off my green dress and just diving in. But the show had to go on. Our music carried across the harbor, to distant docks where people appeared, leaning in and listening.

I hoped our music was pleasing—to the onlookers, the passers by, to the seal.

I hoped that the light in the sky and the sound of music and happy children and the sight of the seal, and each other, stopped them all in their tracks for a moment.

Gave them a reason and excuse to pause.

It all gave me a reason to pause.

There is great beauty in this world, and when we catch a taste of it upon our tongues or in our ears, upon our skin or in our nose or shining bright into our eyes we can pause. If we remember to, if we are awake and able, we aught to.

I hope we pause.

I often forget to myself. I think the happiest people are the ones who remember to pause. Every day. Every hour. I am certain my happiest moments are all set in that space and time when I do pause, take notice, listen and feel for the beautiful.

All is fleeting, but beauty may always be found. Somewhere.

The concert ended and the clouds shifted.

We three smiled. Our floating audience clapped and smiled. It felt good.

A seal heard Songbird. She broke the surface of the water a few times, to listen perhaps, to wonder or maybe, just maybe she was there to summon me back home.

Home to swim.

See you tomorrow, my selkie friend.