Keep singing, no matter the size of the stage

The audience doesn't matter, as our kids know, Suzanne Westover writes.

Recently, I attended the talent show at my daughter's school. It had been a dreary, rainy week; one of those chunks of time when life feels like a slog, no matter how much you remind yourself to be grateful. It turns out the cure for the “where-onearth-is-springtime-blues” is in the front row of an elementary school gym.

The excitement was palpable. The off-kilter, glittery homemade backdrop glimmered in the shaky spotlight.

The Grade 1s filed in first, over-the-moon at one of their first POST-COVID in-school extravaganzas. Then the older grades, just shy of tooold-to-be-excited. As they sat in uneven rows, heads titled toward the stage, I felt something akin to a lump forming in my throat. So many of these activities have been blanked out these last few years, and it's wonderful to be part of them again.

But what really got me to thinking was the extraordinary courage and raw vulnerability of the kids who got up there on the stage. It wasn't just touching to see them doing their best, regardless of ability. It was the self-belief and passion that made me smile inside.

Some stepped up to the stage nervous, and pushed through anyway, refusing to let their fear get the better of them. Others looked like natural performers, soaring above the fray, convinced of their own ability.

These kids weren't on the hunt for approval, or accolades. They weren't deterred by missed notes or missteps. They didn't care to dwell on their mistakes. They stood on that stage and sang and danced and played their little hearts out, because they could.

They were entirely absorbed in the display of their own wonderful uniqueness. From two Grade 4s who played the role of Sebastian to Ariel's mermaid — with the enthusiasm of off-broadway chorus girls — to a young girl dressed in her Sunday best who sang about her love for God with eyes closed and head high, utterly enraptured by the lyrics, I recognized a little piece of all of us up there.

I remember being five or six, and performing a gymnastics routine with two friends at the cottage. It involved a somersault-vaultinto-headstand-onto-theneighbour's-striped-velourcouch, with a resounding yell of: 1984! (That must've been the year of our debut.) We thought it was the absolute best routine since Nadia Comaneci.

I got to wondering: when do we lose that perfect sense of abandon? When is it we shut the door on our own dreams before the world has a chance to do it for us?

And why does it matter what the world thinks, anyway?

So what if most of us won't ever win a Grammy, or hoist a medal, or even get paid for our passions? These brave and wonderful kids reminded me that the minute we start doing things in search of society's stamp of approval, is the very same minute we often stop doing them at all.

My hope for these kids is that they'll never stop believing in their own talent, and they'll keep putting it on display, no matter the size of the stage.