And I, as I've begun to say for the past few months when she says this, I respond with, "It's okay. You're here and that's what's important. Sit down and just write one little itty bitty paragraph." She looks at me with suspect, and then sits down and writes. It is always good, thoughtful, and with just the right detail.
A singer and musician, she has a beautiful rare voice, and I what I hope is a tradition to our workshop by asking her to open it with a song. Last week was easy for her since she had finished a musical program the evening before with members of the residence, but yesterday, she again looked at me, confused and frightened.
And then - as quickly as she'd said she couldn't remember any words - she looked straight ahead and began to sing, "I'm Sitting on Top of the World," with a rolling falsetto that enraptures me. And when she finished, we clapped, and no one louder than me. I could have listened to her the rest of the afternoon.
"You have the most wonderful voice," I said to her, and she looked me in the eyes. "Thank you, Sheela," she replied.
When the workshop was over, she stood and said she felt "wobbly." I said, "Go to the Dining Room and eat and you will feel better." She said she had mixed up her meds. I'd seen her much more shaky in the past, so I knew she was okay, just a body of nerves, her inner dialogue strangling her with petulant thoughts.
The rest of the afternoon her song stayed with me.
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