For the longest time, I believed that I had no soul.

    I don't know where I was when they were passing it out-- probably standing in the folk section at a music store, swaying to some Pete Seeger. But when the Soul Man (please pardon the terribly dated Sam and Dave pun) came knocking, I was nowhere to be found.

    It's not really so bad-- it's hardly noticeable in most situations, really. I can live a reasonably normal life without soul-- sometimes I can even interact with those in possession of soul without stumbling over my intensely awkward self for periods of up to five minutes. (I have to practice a lot in front of the mirror.) In fact, there are even some times-- most notably when I, convinced that I am sufficiently alone (read: no one around for fifteen thousand miles), lip-synch frenetically to an old Temptations CD-- believe that I really do have soul.

    It's only when cornered and forced to dance that my complete lack of soul becomes excruciatingly apparent. I try to avoid it whenever possible, but sometimes it's dance or die, and I trot out my infamous flail-my-arms-wildly-like-a-one-legged-llama-in-labor dance in hopes that everyone will bear witness to my horrendous disability and never again call upon me to punish myself so cruelly.

    I guess it's nothing to be ashamed of. A lot of people have no soul. Hardly anyone can really belt out an Aretha Franklin song without seeming to be in intense pain, most likely from hemorrhoids or an atomic wedgie. Some people have it, some people don't. And, until this weekend, I certainly didn't.

    But it turns out-- and those of you who have seen me in action will find this incredibly hard to swallow-- that I've had soul all along. It was just hiding in the tubing of an old university trigger trombone.

    This weekend I had the pleasure of performing at the 25th annual AU Jazz Festival with the jazz ensemble, which is made up of me, and eighteen other people who do everything a bazillion times better than me, including brushing their teeth and breathing. Needless to say, I've always been a little apprehensive at rehearsal, wondering if my complete lack of soul had become painfully apparent to them (as I had always assumed that those without soul would be beaten with soprano saxophones and used as trombone stands as a lesson to others.) No one ever seemed to catch on, but I still had little hope of gaining any sort of soul from these gifted performers. Soul, apparently, is not contagious.

    But this weekend, right in the middle of a song, I got mowed down by the Soul Train (when will the terrible puns stop?), and, if not for one glorious day, I knew what it was like to be like everyone else, to play like everyone else. To have soul.

    I don't know what did it. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was fate. Or maybe someone started feeling sorry for me. But at that moment, I was the Queen of Soul-- sorry, Aretha. And I have the feeling that it hasn't worn off yet. Who knows? Maybe, after years of lingering in the folk section, I've finally found my way to Motown.

    Let's hope this newfound soul finds its way to my feet. All this dancing like a llama is getting mighty old.