I think I was born singing. Or maybe humming. Okay, cooing.
Music has always been a big part of my life. Growing up, I was always singing, much to the annoyance of my older brother.
My mom and I can find a song lyric for any occasion. Often, it’s the same lyric.
My husband used to randomly ask me, “What song is playing in the background?” because there was always background music within me. If I stopped, took a breath, and got externally quiet for a moment, a song would rise to the surface. It was as if my entire life had a soundtrack. Sometimes the volume got turned down, but it was always playing.
And then my dad died.
Music became painful.
Sure, before he died, I could access my pain through sad songs when I was feeling down.
But after he died, it seemed all music touched the sad nerve.
It was as if the soundtrack of my life was now intricately woven in with the river of sadness that was always flowing deep within.
Music outside of me would enter in and merge with the newly integrated grief track playing inside me, and sadness would rise up.
It wasn’t always deep sadness. But music began to be associated with pain. Grief.
Where I once used to listen to music often, I found I preferred silence.
I used to love singing. Now, not as much.
Like the waning vibration of a guitar’s string, the grief vibration is less intense than it used to be. The strum is not so intense. But I haven’t found my way back. Or forward.
What is the song of my heart?
These days, it’s the sound of silence.