I discovered I could sing well by accident as a teenager. I didn’t come upon that conclusion by myself. Someone had to convince me and what followed for me was nothing short of cathartic. For the first time in my life, I stood on a stage, in front of a microphone, shaking so badly I thought my knees would give way. I took what is probably the most memorable breath of my life, and quietly began…
“It won’t be easy, you’ll think it strange,
When I try to explain how I feel…”
There are few words to describe the actualization that I had been heard by 1200 people at once, and my performance had brought many of them to tears. Heard. There was a kind of power in my voice that invoked strong emotion in others. That was thirty years ago. This morning, a friend posted Pentatonix’s “Mary did you know?” on Facebook. I thought to myself, while listening to each note, that even if you’re not Christian and don’t celebrate Christmas, you have to appreciate the fact that voices raised in perfect harmony can bring an audience together, causing them to all look up at once and in the same direction.
Harmony is powerful.
Today, I have witnessed a harmony of voices with no sound. Nineteen people, members (and now friends) of a professional group on Facebook, all watched our feed last night as one of our members far out of our reach watched his love take her last breaths. Each of us waited with hope that at any moment, she would rally. Through our fingers we experienced a gut-wrenching empathy. We prayed. We cried. All individually, but united in hope, without a single sound reaching our friend’s ears.
Today, we are united in our grief for him and he heard us. He heard all of our voices. We made sure that he did, because after all, we had nothing else to give. I had commented yesterday that nothing we had, nothing we knew served us as we watched our friend suffer over the only medium on which he could reach us all at once. We raised our voices the only way we could until some of us could physically get to him. He said last night, during the worst of it, that he had no idea how loved he was. He had heard us.
I have to be honest. Half the reason I wrote this piece is because I, along with the eighteen other members of this group, cannot easily process this particular loss. She was young, bright, giving and despite a long battle too complex to explain in this medium, hopeful and vibrant. Writing is a tool for exhaling, resolving. I cannot sing for her, as I have at many funeral services. But we, this eclectic group of friends from around the globe, raise our strange voices to our friend in love and in memory of her beauty. It seems a little thing, but I can tell you now after watching it happen over the last twenty four hours, that when nineteen little things harmonize in a single purpose, a very big message can be sent. I can also tell you that even if you don’t believe your tiny voice is important, let it be heard.
R.I.P Lindsey Winchester 8.29.88 – 11.23.14
Bitches and Issues 