The Tale of a Bird who Flew Free
How I learned in a dream that my singing voice and songwriting had the power to take flight – and what this means for yours.
One night in April of 2018, three months into my first year of vocal improvisation study, I had a dream.
In the opening scene, I found myself travelling. Sitting on a private bus alongside my improvisation coursemates, I sensed that we were being driven deep into rural England – but not the English countryside I knew. In the world of my dream, the land appeared vaster, and more fairytale-idyllic. I gazed out of the window and felt swallowed by layered hills and valleys, adorned with a dense array of trees.
According to the dream, this flourishing land was where the oldest of my two younger brothers lived, with his partner (now wife) and my nephew, who back then was a toddler. Their country house was almost a palace, complete with the odd tower and turret. I’d been invited to stay, so when we reached the house I said goodbye my friends, hopped off the bus, and went in.
A new scene dawned into my awareness. I'd greeted the family, and now I was wandering the long corridors. Entering the living room of the house, I stopped still as something caught my eye. Suspended from a tall stand was a white vintage birdcage, dome-shaped and decorated with elegant wire curlicues. I peaked inside, and saw not a budgie or a canary, but a wild robin.
Because dream logic does not obey waking rules, I was not at all surprised by the cage's wild inhabitant, but understood that the family had tamed her and were now keeping her as a pet. I loved her instantly. I spent long periods of my stay just sitting alongside her, observing her, and enjoying the simple companionship.
After many hours of sitting with the robin, I began to notice something strange. Before my eyes the wires of the cage appeared to morph and stretch. It dawned on me that the gaps in between the wires were wide, much wider than they should have been. With a spike of panic, I realised that there was nothing physically keeping the robin inside that cage, and there never had been. Yet she’d remained in there, living in that confined space, in captivity.
Alarmed, I called out to my brother, “AD, the robin is going to fly away!”
Without hesitation he walked up to the cage and with absolute calm said, “I think it’s time to let her go.” And he held the cage up high, opened the door, and let the robin fly free.
Like an arrow she flew through the open window, and into the embrace of the living green landscape.
I felt... bereft. I thought I’d never see her again.
It wasn’t true.
If you love something? Let it go. If it returns to you? It’s yours.
She did return. I discovered a way to call her back. (Here's where things get extremely Walt Disney – and yes, you've guessed it, I was that child that watched all the cartoons and sang along knowing all the words.)
I began to sing. I held out my hand. Sure enough, the robin returned to alight in my open palm and listen to my song.
I found I could do this with other birds too – blue tits, sparrows, blackbirds. Like a 1950s animated princess, or St Francis of Assisi cast in a musical, there seemed no end to the diversity of avian species I could attract. They all came to perch on my hand and enjoy listening to my song. What a superpower!
As I sang, I realised that I had improvised an entire song, completely on the spot. It had a melody, lyrics and a complete structure. This is something that in my waking life, I used to wish I had the skill to do. Before joining her course, I'd watched videos of my improvisation teacher Briony doing exactly this. I’d never done it myself though.
Ending the dream on a high, I woke up with the musical remnants of my song still echoing around my head. I didn’t capture them – but no matter. (There are many, many more ideas where those came from.)
As for the robin of my dream, she’s always with me. She was, and is, a metaphor for my voice.
I read a theory once that all characters you encounter in a dream represent aspects of your own psyche. It makes sense here: I (or my voice) was the bird trapped in a cage. I was myself, the observer, realising that my voice didn't need to be caged. I was my brother, with the groundedness and clarity to set my own voice free. I was myself, a singer, in relationship to my voice, in its wildness and freedom.
The cage for me represents being locked in stage fright, and creatively blocked. Longing, as I had done for two decades, to write songs but believing I didn’t know how. Intuiting at some level that there was a musical artist inside of me, but not knowing the way to liberate her.
Since seeing the gaps between the wires expanding, life keeps presenting me with opportunities to fly beyond. Expanding my wings, one small, managable flight at a time, that's what my journey of singing, songwriting and improvising is all about.
As for you, dear reader, there's a reason I'm sharing about all this. I want you to know that if you have a longing to be fully in your creativity, flow and confidence as a singer and songwriter – whatever that looks like for you – you can. Your voice can also be the ‘bird that flies free’. And I hope that by sharing stories and insights from my journey, you may take away inspiration and know-how that acts as the wind beneath your wings.
Your voice is an unrepeatable and precious gift to the world. Your voice too can become a bird that flies free.