When I was a kid I used to sing in youth choirs. Invariably practices would take place in a church, moving and mixing sections of the choir in the assorted back rooms and halls. Every new school year as the pattern fell into place I was always hoping we’d get somewhere with a view overlooking the sanctuary.
Our conductors were always emphasizing the way that singing is a process that uses your whole body. To project in a concert hall you need to hold your shoulders back, head straight, chin up to keep your chest and your throat open. In our practices we were taught to imagine throwing the sound out into the room. I would always picture it like a tight colorful ball of light, arcing through the top of my range.
In the sanctuary there would always be some kind of decoration at the apex of the vaulted ceiling, like a skylight or a crucifix. One church had a small gold cross suspended from the rafters. I always enjoyed finding and fixing my eyes on that, so I could feel the sound drawing all the way up through my chest when I was reaching for the high notes. I must note that this project was not encouraged by our conductors, who would surely have preferred that I watch them for cues. But I was always a spacey kid anyway.
I still find myself staring at the ceiling when I’m singing along in church. Partly I like having a spot to focus on away from the human busyness of the pews and the altar. It quiets my mind a bit and lets me feel my body resonate with song. Plus I still need all the help I can get on the high notes.