Why We Sing

I just read a blog post entitled Singing Through the Apocalypse. Yes, I can relate. And I also write little stories and shoot them out into the world, like casting a fishing line into the ocean. I seldom get a bite, but when I do, it’s satisfying to know someone read my story and thought it worthy of attention. Lately I’ve been doing more writing and taking more chances on getting my work published, because, well, I just have to. And, like the older person I am, I go to church—that helps, too.

I don’t know how to otherwise counteract the soundbites of congressmen sporting AR-15 lapel pins and calmly stating that their constituents require automatic weapons to shoot raccoons and feral pigs, the day after another horrific mass shooting. Or the elevation to a position second in line to the Presidency of an individual who supported overthrowing the government because his candidate didn't win. Or the reality of children being kidnapped, tortured, and murdered because of where they live in the Middle East. Innocent people being used as pawns in bitter and long-standing struggles for power and political domination is nothing new, but it’s also happening in this country in a more subtle, but equally insidious way. Terrifying.

So several times a week, my husband and I drive to places where we can sing beautiful music with others who also need to sing in order to keep their heads above water. We sing to create a space for respite. A space for less anger. A space for thought and reflection.

On the first Friday of the month, we sing what’s called a Compline service at a church we’ve been attending for the last few years. At first, I thought no one would show up at 9 PM on a Friday night to hear chanted prayers and ethereal tunes written centuries ago sung a capella. Oh, but they do. Young hipsters, families, and people passing by on the street fill the pews of the candlelit sanctuary. I think there is a universal need to simply be still and listen and for seeking at least temporary shelter from the shouting and the madness, which seems to grow louder every day.

On Monday nights, we drive 30 miles to sing with a group that has given us the finest choral experience of our lives. For two and a half hours, we set aside whatever we’re carrying and commit to singing at the top of our game. To find ways to become better humans thorough the music. To look away from our phones and focus on telling stories of who we are and what we believe through beautifully crafted tunes meant to lift up all who hear us. It’s hard work, but those of us who create art in any form have to keep doing it, now more than ever.

I refuse to bury my head in the sand, appealing as that sounds. I watch news I can mostly trust, and I read the words of well-educated people who speak truth and can explain how we got here through historical perspective. It’s easy to be overcome with despair and at times my husband and I ask each other, not entirely in jest, where would we move, should it all come tumbling down. Our country has been on the precipice before and survived, but this is different from anything I’ve experienced in my lifetime.

We keep our equilibrium through good friends, a good place to worship, time spent with pets, and for me, reading good books and writing stories. But often I find it’s the singing that helps most. From the back rubs in warm-ups where we physically touch the person standing next to us, to breathing together as one, to those unexpected moments that raise the hair on our arms, causing us to glance around and see others with tears in their eyes, too—that’s where the hope lies.