“Baby, I’m hot just like an oven. I need some lovin’,” I sang as I sat in my car, taking my lunch break. “And, Baby, I can’t hold it much longer. It’s getting stronger inside of me.”These words filled the cabin of my late-model Volvo until they poured like water from the open windows into the cold air of the parking lot in which I sat. A woman, older than I and presumably more cautious, judging by the look on her face as she witnessed my full-bore outburst of song, shook her head at me and frowned. It was a strange reaction now that I think back on it and it brings out such gravity and interior motivation that I am called to follow it.
I am a strange person. I do strange things: I dance around the house, radio on, trying to move every muscle in my body to different beats within a song while I cook French toast; I stretch, doing toe-touches randomly in groups of people; and I am occasionally gripped by the urge to break into spontaneous and dramatic singing of soul songs by Marvin Gaye or Al Green.
