I can go months without thinking about it, until I let out a whistle, that often moves from a rock melody to a jazz riff on that same rock tune. It creeps up on me, the knowledge that I'm usually the only one out of dozens of people milling about, that chooses to whistle.
And unlike most people, I have no shame or embarrassment in singing or whistling, often at loud levels, in public.
I had just gotten out of my car today, my feet hitting the pavement, mid-step towards my apartment when I realized I was whistling, really loudly. Out loud, my whistle cut across, high and clear, a great jazzy take on Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers' "Last Dance with Mary Jane."
Yippidy-Do-Da comes to mind as does old cowboys whistling as they whittle away wood into flutes or tobacco pipes. Public whistling is certainly an old hobby, and knowing I am an old soul, this only makes me smile. Because long ago I knew I was an old soul, that I've been around in a lifetime or two---this is no surprise to me, but merely a confirmation of who I am, and a feeling that in one more way, I've come home to myself.
