HOW CAN WE KEEP FROM SINGING?

 

A celebrated organist, perhaps it was Bach, reported that music training as a child was no more and no less than "practicing the scales of rejoicing". What a beautiful, apt phrase! Well, singing’s been my prime way of practicing the scales of rejoicing.

My friends, whether you sing in an organized church choir, or perform instrumentally in a community orchestra, or limn melodies in a private corner of your house, if singing lifts your spirits, it surely qualifies as a bona fide spiritual practice. Hallelujah!

I resonate with the charming story told by Edna Tourangeau: "Because of the huge snowstorm and zero-degree weather that began the New Year in Chicago, I was unable to get out for church services on Sunday. Feeling deprived, I was randomly reading in the Psalms and had to laugh aloud when my eyes fell on verse five of Psalm 149: ‘Let the faithful exult in glory; let them sing for joy on their couches.’" Take it from the Bible: even good old couch-potatoes can practice the scales of rejoicing simply by turning off the TV and unlimbering their god-given vocal chords. Just like Edna.

Singing is physically accessible and financially reasonable. One’s larynx comes with birth. Every one of us possesses our own encased instrument, to be employed at our beck and call. The human voice box isn’t cumbersome to lug around like a saxophone and doesn’t have to be borrowed like a friend’s piano.

Eminently portable, we can sing wherever we live, move, and have our beings. Whether strolling or gathered around a campfire, in a shower or during a speech, at social justice rallies or in a classroom.

Another benefit of singing is its remarkable dexterity, being one of those rare activities geared for either private or public enjoyment. I personally possess a sacred corner of our Meryloft (a word that combines the names of our deceased mother Marys with the art of Merrymaking) where I hole up to sing every genre of music from spirituals to country western, pop to semi-classical melodies, sometimes a cappella, other times accompanied by my guitar. When I’m alone, more often than not, I find myself humming, whistling, chanting or singing softly or loudly, slowly or swiftly, it matters not.

Another reward of singing is how powerfully it links me with cherished family members. My father was a consummate musician, but lamentably, I never learned musical skill directly from him. Ah, such is often the parent-child reality, right? However, now that he’s dead, every time I pick up the 1947 Gibson guitar Dad bequeathed me and croon a melody, Harold Towle’s soul mystically vibrates through my voice.

And during her waning years, the only thing that would often calm my cherished mother-in-law’s agitated spirit was my singing treasured melodies of her era and mine. As she suffered from the cognitive decline of tiny strokes, singing seemed to ground Mary’s soul and bring radiance to her countenance. Isn’t it miraculous how singing insinuates its way, beneath all words, into our interior castles?

And on the other end of our generational sweep, there’s nothing that’s connected me more deeply to our grandchildren than holding them in my lap while navigating love-songs and lullabies. Intimacy is surely bred from such smells, sights, and sounds.

And when Carolyn and I sing together, we replenish the deepest and dearest wellsprings of our priceless love.

In my view, authentic, robust joy should furnish sufficient nutrients for all the regions of the Self. And singing does just that. As Paul says in I Corinthians 14:15: "I will sing with the spirit, and I will sing with the mind also." That’s certainly the balance I seek in choosing tunes that awaken my spirit and stretch my mind as well. But that’s not all. Singing is an endeavor that fully engages one’s body.

As folk-singer Holly Near writes in her autobiography: Fire in the Rain, Singer in the Storm:

If I were to point at my voice, I would not be pointing at my throat but rather at my eyes and cheeks and lips and jaw and shoulders and chest and arms and trunk and thighs and feet. This morning I sang a note. I could hear my heartbeat in the note.

You see, when we sing, not only do our vocal chords vibrate but so do some of our bones. It’s an in-body, full-body experience.

Singing definitely spurs the growth of my conscience as well, for there’s never been a social protest movement that hasn’t been drenched in singing. Justice-building is irrevocably linked with joy-sharing.

To top it off, singing, along with magic, has equipped me with a life-mission when I complete parish ministry. In addition to spending time with family, writing, tennis and travel, upon graduation from formal work, I envision myself entering public schools and nursing homes and singing songs from every corner and era as well as spinning magic tricks. Why? Because I’m a merrymaker from here on out, finding and delivering joy, as well as perhaps bringing a bit of balm to weary travelers and our beleaguered society.

And when I come to die, if I’m lucky enough, after I utter some goodbyes and shed the attendant tears among my beloveds, I’d like to be alone. And as my voice is willing, I hope to sing some sort of thank you to God and fellow-pilgrims for a blessed journey beyond my imagining. I hardly know what special melodies I’ll choose to sing, since there’s so much music crowding my soul.

But this much I know for certain: I beam at the prospect of being able to go out singing.

Tom Owen-Towle

February 26, 2006