I consider myself more of a vocal stylist...

I know I’m a pretty good writer.

Please forgive me if that seems like an insufferable thing to say, but modesty, especially false modesty, has never been my thing.

Writing, on the other hand, is my thing. Always has been. My style may not be the stuff of Nobel-prize-winning tomes but nevertheless, the compulsion to write has been a part of me for so long I can’t imagine what it’s like to live without it.

If I am not writing, it means I am not well. No matter how difficult and distracting my life becomes, my ability to write, and to write in what I consider my trademark style, is a testament to my mental and emotional health.

Strange then, that I would gladly hang up my keyboard if only I could sing.

Because I can’t sing.

There I said it. Despite an abundance of musical talent in my family, I am a terrible singer. No matter how many times I have fortified myself with red wine and sang around a campfire or harmonized at a party or even (just the one time, praise God) taken to a coffeehouse stage with my guitar, I remain a terrible singer.

My husband, on the other hand, is a great singer. His punk band had a modest local hit in its day and reunited to wow the crowd at our wedding. His version of Margaritaville brings the house down whenever we stumble upon a karaoke bar and I am able to harangue him into performing.

And I do have to harangue him because, unlike me, he is modest. I find his reluctance to sing inconceivable, because if my voice was one-tenth as sweet and strong as his you would have to turn the hose on me to get me offstage.

I have been watching American Idol this year for the first time ever and listening to the performers every week induces in me a yearning so sharp and pure that I feel a physical ache in my gut.

Oh sure, writing is all well and good. But what I wouldn’t give to be able to sing like that? To be able to stop people in their tracks with the sweet lilt of my voice? To open my mouth and cause throats to swell and eyes to well and tiny hairs to prickle? To carry with me always a means to transport people to another place, another time?

Sigh.

I may be a terrible singer, but I continue to sing around the house on an almost constant basis. Our radio is always on and Rob and I have the following conversation several times a day.

Me: “I love this song. Want me to sing it to you?”
Rob: “No.”
Me: (turning down radio lest it obscure my voice): “Okay great!”

I have sung to Graham since the minute he was born. I sing songs about his hair, his nose, his poop, how much I love him, how silly he is, how pretty his mama is…(I told you modesty is not my thing).

And in the last few months my heart has swollen with pride as Graham has started to sing as well. He sings to the radio, he sings to the television, he begs me to play his favorite CDs and then sits and sways to the music, plaintively slurring over the words he doesn’t know and proudly shouting the ones he does.

My boy - the singer!

Maybe when he’s a rich and famous musician he’ll let his mama sing backup for him.

Or at least write the liner notes for his albums

Tell me sweet little lies

I am a big, fat liar.

I lie almost every single day. And I don’t feel the least bit guilty about it.

Because I don’t tell lies designed to hurt people or cheat people or even lies designed to afford me some kind of power or advantage over others. I tell little, white lies designed to boost the spirit and fortify the resolve of both casual acquaintances and the people I love the most.

I do appreciate that some people see a value in complete total honesty: but I don’t want to be around those people. I don't believe that brutal honesty is constructive much of the time, especially not when spirits are low or people are plagued by insecurities.

Let me tell you the kind of honesty in which I believe.

I believe in selective honesty born of hope, of kindness and of need.

I believe that words are like magic beans: that sometimes when you say things in just the right way, you can make them grow into something like truth.

Sometimes impossibly brave words – You can get through this, Things are going to get better, All these trials will make you stronger - come out sounding something like resolve.

Resolve spoken aloud has a funny way of making the heart swell with hope.

And is not hope the seed from which conviction and truth grow?

Have you ever been struck by someone’s weariness, and then made a point of complimenting them on their dress or their hair or the book they are carrying, as if that were the first thing you noticed about them? I have. Don’t tell me it’s not magical to watch a sad face breathe in compliments and breathe out confidence.

Have you ever clutched a crying child to your chest and told them that mommy would always be there, that mommy would always make the hurt go away? I have. Don’t chide me for creating a zone of safety from which my child may freely grow and learn to nurture the strength he will need when he is old enough to discover my duplicity.

Some things, kindness, hope and love, for instance, are more important than the blunt, unvarnished truth: words that impart strength and optimism need not pass a lie detector test.

If a friend of mine raises her tired, hopeful face to me and says, I know I must look terrible, I will smile, touch her cheek, shake my head and say, Don’t be silly, you look beautiful.

If my child runs to me bruised, crying and fearful of the hurts the world has in store I will crush his tiny body to mine, take a deep breath and whisper fiercely, Don’t worry, Mommy will never let anything hurt you again.

If someone I love looks at me with tremulous eyes and asks if everything is going to be okay, I will embrace them, I will reach into the depths of my heart, summon my courage to the sticking point and say in a voice that brooks no doubt, Everything is going to work out just fine, I know it.

And if my pants do catch fire, let them burn: I will be too busy making magic to notice.