It’s a funny story, and if you want to know it, next time you meet me, you can ask. But this week, the image of a leopard has been omnipresent. I’ve been noticing its quiet, observant and wise presence everywhere. I was asked: What does it mean to you? And I thought of being in South Africa in 2000, and how–not for lack of trying–we never saw one, in spite of the fact that our safari guides told us they were always around (and we certainly saw many a fresh paw print in the sand). We learned that leopards are not afraid particularly to be around humans; something like bears in North America, they have learned that being not far from human settlements has its advantages. Leopards are stealthy, quiet, infinitely patient. They lounge up in trees, surveying the landscape, understanding their entire environment, their context. They feel no need to act impulsively. They simply wait, listen, watch.
What does this have to do with singing, or me? I’ve written, in previous posts, about “betweenness”, the moment between stimulus and response that can feel infinite, the space where the intentional breath happens, where the impulse to sing is born. And I’ve watched my students (and me!) rush to jump in, to act, without allowing the time for poise, the time to choose the course of action, the intent of execution. I’ve thought about the bravery, the quiet confidence it takes to be present in these “between” spaces and not fear the silence. And I’ve watched as many students grew in their confidence bit by bit, and learned to be more like the leopard.
So, everyone: this week, embody your inner leopard. In fact, go forth in the world as if you had one inside of you. Be majestic. Own your agency, your power. Observe. Listen. Wait. Choose the moment you truly want to sing forth. Enter, with leopard.