I lost the music

Somewhere in a budding room of my soul

Thank you to my friend Joels beautiful piece (must watch!) for inspiring this post.

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I grew up around music. My grandfather always sang around the house, in the garden, in the car - and in the most inappropriate moments. His rendition of ‘Tanto pe cantá’ still resounds so vividly in my head as one of the few childhood memories I remember and adore.

My grandmother always sang while doing chores. So did my mother - all day long. And she still does.
It’s one Italian stereotype we definitely fulfil as a family.

Our house was always in song, there was always music playing from somewhere and someone was always singing. The music was one of the two:

Christian worship music or Italian classics.

Nobody in my family cared if they could sing or sounded good - everyone just sang all the time.
I sang in the church choir. I learned to play the guitar and for a while, the piano, until my parents had to sell our piano to pay rent.
I danced in my room in secret, to Pop Music and watched MTV when I was alone at home, because dancing and MTV both weren’t allowed in our house.
At Bible college and in church I got to lead worship a few times, but I never became a ‘worship leader’. It always felt so uncomfortable. Conflicting with my integrity. I was supposed to be doing this for the Lord, yet here I was enjoying the spotlight, being so hyper aware that everyones eyes were on me, that there was more to this show than simply being a ‘humble’ worship leader. I have always wondered if others felt the same? How were they doing it and remaining grounded? How did they remain pure hearted and not make it about themselves on stage?! (Spoiler! They did not.)

There were endless singing sessions with friends at home, around bonfires at church camp, on the streets, in church of course, on road trips, in the school choir, at sleepovers.

As a family, every year we would watch the Sanremo Music Festival. We were obsessed with it and would never miss a day.

Music has always been a huge part of my life, my expression and my family life. My brother became a music producer. My mother just started learning a new instrument at the age of 62.

And me? … I have lost the music along the way.

Of course I still listened to music on most days. I still tried to keep it close. Tried to play the guitar and the cello at home occasionally. By myself, for myself. Even wrote some lyrics and melodies once in a while. Danced in the kitchen to my favourite Italian pop songs.

But in the last 5 years - it hasn’t been the same as before.

Something happened when I left the church. Music for the biggest part of three decades was heavily connected to faith. To god.

When I lost god, in some ways, I also lost music.

Often, when I felt like breaking out in song, the worship songs that were brainwashed into me from childhood came bursting out.
It made me sick.
When I grabbed my guitar I realised that every song I knew how to play by memory was a worship song.
It made my heart sink.
I had to seek out and learn secular songs to play and memorise.
When I hear the christian lyrics that are forever burned in my head now, I shiver. Repulsed. The twisted toxicity of the words so loud and clear.

I used to love choirs and singing in a group with others. But even every secular city choir I have considered joining has some freaking gospel song in their repertoire.

There is no part of me that wants to clap and sing to a deaf, silent and powerless god anymore. Not even just for fun. My body fully repels it, rejects it like a wrong organ that will poison my system.

Of course, music has always been with me. Somewhere. Even if only on the sidelines. On my kitchen dance floor once in a while. In Disney songs I love. In my grandfathers' memory.

But music has also been a painful reminder of what I had to let go of in order to grow and become real.

Since the time ‘after’, music has had a bitter aftertaste, more specifically, trying to make music by myself.

I yearn to find my music again. Not just have it live on my peripheries, but inside of me. I want to embody melodies and breathe songs. I want to feel it reverberate in my bones, a natural part of me, like the hair on my legs and the bend of my eyelashes. Music was meant to be in the fabric of my skin, in the colour of my blood. It was always meant to be deeper than my ears, beyond words. Somewhere, in a budding room of my soul, is my music. Waiting for me.