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The Journey Back to Music: A Personal Reflection

The first encounter in the choir was somewhat typical yet revealing. A woman sitting beside me in the alto section leaned over with a hint of hesitation and confessed, “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to sing.”

In response, I felt a strong urge to share the same uncertainty but opted instead to offer encouragement. “We’ll be fine,” I replied, projecting confidence that wavered internally.

As we gathered, the room swelled with approximately 70 to 80 voices. The venue, a stunning salon in the Melbourne Recital Centre, was a striking reminder of the talent that frequently graced its stage, and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of inferiority in such a magnificent setting.

Renée, our choir director, addressed the group. She guided us to consider our vocal strengths, prompting me to recall a distant memory of singing some Sinatra during a late-night karaoke session. While the details were fuzzy, the memory was enough to lead me to the bass and baritone section, where I hoped my voice would blend more discreetly.

My decision to join the choir came after a period of personal upheaval. My partner Toni and I had been together for over three decades and had navigated through significant challenges. A serious crisis had once threatened our relationship, but kindness and patience allowed us to heal. By the time the pandemic struck, we had rediscovered a deep affection for one another. However, shortly after, a severe illness claimed Toni’s life in early 2024.

In the year that followed her passing, I found myself grappling with profound loss and the empty spaces left in my life. Yet amidst this turmoil, a new certainty emerged: I longed to engage with music once again.

Although I had spent years tinkering with a guitar, a relic from a significant day in music history, I had never fully committed to being a musician. The allure of melodies and chords captivated me, but the discipline of practice had always eluded me. As Toni’s illness progressed, my guitar languished untouched, gathering dust, while my life became constricted and devoid of indulgences that had once brought me joy. Even after her death, I could barely muster the energy to play, though a persistent yearning to reconnect with music lingered.

As I scanned the choir room, I pondered the unique stories and motivations that led each person there. While singing was undoubtedly the primary purpose, I suspected it stemmed from deeper desires for connection and healing. I had come across various perspectives on the therapeutic benefits of community choirs, particularly in coping with grief, yet I hesitated to link my choir membership directly to Toni’s passing. It felt too much like a predetermined path.

Before long, Renée encouraged us to explore and trust our voices. She guided the choir through an 18th-century canon of Psalm 137, “The Waters of Babylon.” As my voice resonated through the words wept and remember, I sensed a surprising smoothness and confidence emerging.

The moment arrived for all of us to sing together.

In those brief minutes of harmony, I lost myself in the collective beauty, unaware of the technical aspects I would later come to understand about counterpoint and harmony’s interplay of sound and emotion.

What struck me was the powerful fact that, in unison, we were creating something beautiful. As the haunting echoes of wept and remember filled the space, I felt a sweetness that rekindled cherished memories.

Images of a chilly night long ago flooded my mind—Toni and me, walking hand-in-hand near the Recital Centre, joyfully singing “Moon River” together. I was the bass while she harmonized as the alto. In that moment, I realized I hadn’t been crooning Sinatra alone after all.

Those memories washed over me as I absorbed the symphonic blend of voices surrounding me, each singer infused with their own motivation for joining the choir. My voice had found its place, driven by a yearning that transcended mere notes.

And in that powerful act of singing, I allowed my emotions to surface, acknowledging both grief and beauty in an unexpected release.

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www.theguardian.com