At midnight, we were singing

At midnight, we were singing.

Voices
few and gathered close,
each thread deliberate,
each presence known.

The light of a new year dawning
not with fireworks and fanfare 
but with the soft glow of music
and of togetherness.

Leaning into the wood and wire
of the piano,
like leaning into the shoulder of a beloved —
feeling warmth,
feeling the quiet assurance that you are held,
feeling the kind of comfort
that steadies you;
that reminds you —
you are home.

The vibration of voices and instruments,
and of smiles and catching each other's eyes,
wrapping you in a tenderness
so whole,
it feels like the world has stopped
just to cradle you in its song.

For this moment, there is nothing else.

It wasn’t chance that brought us here.
The universe didn’t whisper the invitation.
It called, clear and steady:
“Here. This is where you belong tonight.”

And so we sang.
For joy.
For connection.
For silliness.
For awe.
For release.
For nostalgia.
For laughter.
For celebration.
For renewal.

For the way it feels
to let a melody rise
and braid itself between us.

This 
is my favorite way to mark time —
not with resolutions,
not with grand gestures,
but with each other 
and the simplest reminder:

that singing,
always singing
— and especially, singing with others —
is what holds me
and so many of us.

The huddling,
the sharing of breath and song,
the way music calls us back
to ourselves
to each other —
reminding us that we are so alive.

May this gentle start lead to more — 
to melodies that linger, 
to gatherings that ground us.

To the quiet certainty
that what we need most
is always here;
waiting for us to notice,
waiting for us to sing along.