The Power of Song

Music is a spell, a prayer, a blessing

I’ve always loved music. I love to sing. I love playing the piano. I wish I could play the guitar, banjo, and violin. And I have a long-time fantasy of being a drummer in an Irish rock band.

I think even those who are not musically inclined get it. Music is a force of energy. Just like talking or touching, it is a power that moves through us in transformative ways.

It can change our mood. It can energize us. It can literally make us move.

But it was only when I became an aunt that I started to truly understand the magic of music.

When Ben, my oldest nephew, was born, he was one of the fussiest babies I had ever encountered. He was often inconsolable. One day, I started singing softly to him and though it did not stop him from crying, he calmed down a bit and the sound of the music seemed to soothe him.

After that, I sang to them all when they were babies. I still remember when Brynn was an infant, born just after my breakup with my partner, and I had found so much comfort in Tori Amos’s dark, beautiful Night of Hunters that I would sing those songs to Brynn for hours.

Here at the edge of the moon… Running from our future As I look back Your heart grabs my hand Asking me To remember a vow you made That would always take Me to the edge of the moon Circling pictures of you

On the last night of my dog’s life, a few months later, I found myself singing to him, as I stroked his head. Somehow, it seemed like the only appropriate thing to do, to envelop him with the protective bubble of my song that would carry him on to his next journey.

In 2017, I had the privilege of watching three baby owls grow up right before my eyes. They were born on my mother’s property and every weekend, I would carefully (and from an appropriate distance) watch them as they slept, groomed themselves, practiced flying, and made mischief.

I got to know this family of owls so well that I swear, they would communicate with me from across the woods. I’m certain they came to know the sound of my footfall, and often, when I’d come into the woods, one of them would squawk, as if leading me to them.

I wanted to call back to them, but without startling them, so one day, I started singing. I chose only two songs to repeat, so they would become familiar with the notes: Carly Simon’s Boys in the Trees and Be with Me (excuse my untrained voice). I would sing these songs very softly as I walked, knowing they would be able to hear me from far away, knowing they would start associating those tunes with me. If they wanted a visitor, I knew they would stick around. If not, I knew the song would give them enough warning to fly away.

But a funny thing happened: I started to feel as if all the woods around me was swelling with contentment as I sang. Not because I’m a great singer (I’m not) but because song is such a welcome gift.

I realize this might sound crazy, but I’m absolutely convinced that the sage shivered with delight. The junipers stood taller. The ants and worms below me tunneled in a tizzy.

Lay back on a starry night Feel as big and as small as you are…

They loved it. All the land loved it. And I knew then that song is absolute magic.

We know that music has long roots in magic. Think of the bards who kept audiences spellbound with their string instruments and stories. Think of the role drums played in the sacred rites and rituals of our ancestors.

Even as someone who doesn’t identify as a Christian, I can feel the surge of power when singing a hymn with a group of people. I was genuinely overwhelmed when I heard the voices of the parishioners of Notre Dame raised in song in that ancient cathedral.

And nothing (except of course, a visit to the woods) centers me so firmly within myself as listening to Prospero’s Speech by Loreena McKennitt. That tune, mixed with William Shakespeare’s beautiful words, and McKennitt’s ethereal voice instantly connect me with my maker.

Music is a spell. It creates its own force whose direction is only determined by the singer’s intent and energy. When I sing, especially in the woods, I can almost literally see the song, like an undulating wave that flows over everything in its path, everything that can sense the vibrations, the sounds of the song. It changes everything it touches. It has that much power.

Music is a prayer. The sounds, the words stretch out into the universe. Song communicates in a way that simple words cannot. I suspect that touch and song are the language of the Divine even more so than words.

Music is a blessing. Instinctively, I use song for this purpose, as if my soul understands something my mind cannot fully comprehend. Yes, extending a blessing in words is just as valuable, beautiful, and meaningful, but a song can bless in a way that pierces through every layer of flesh, spirit, and land. A song’s blessing is the deepest blessing one can offer — even deeper, in some cases, than a blessing offered through touch. Song spreads itself over the landscape and everyone in it like a blanket — a more complete laying on of hands than our actual hands can ever achieve.

As I get older, I find myself singing more and more often. Part of this, I think, is the fact that I have been separated from my beloved piano. This beautiful instrument that I so love to play lives at my mother’s house now because it does not really fit into my little “cottage.”

I own a guitar and a banjo, yet I don’t know how to play either because I am lazy and distracted and impatient, and I don’t like the calluses they leave on my fingertips — I’m a knitter and callousy fingertips can be very dangerous to my beautiful yarn.

So what do I do? I strum my instruments clumsily and without even the slightest competence, just to have a little something in the background to sing to.

Or I just sing without them.

I sing in my garden. I sing in the shower. I sing in my bed. I sing in the woods. I sing to my nieces and nephews.

Sometimes I think the more I sing, or rather, the more music we all make, the better we can shield ourselves against the darkness. When I start to think that the world is filled with people who only want to hurt others, flinging the cruelest words at strangers on the internet, I sing more often and I sing louder because I know my song will drown out their hateful words. I sing to disarm them. I sing to interrupt their cruelty. I sing to welcome more light into this world.

I also sing to fortify the earth. I sing as a way to restore dignity to the natural world. To tell the trees and land and flowers and birds and coyotes that I recognize them as my kin. I recognize their right to be here. I appreciate their place in this world. I honor what they have to teach me.

And I sing like I’m casting magic spells, weaving threads of melodies between myself and my loved ones. I sing Be with Me now not so much for my owls, who have grown and flown away to find their own territory, but for my little nephew, Alex, who I hope will always remember me, even though he is moving far away.

River runs to the sea Salmon runs to the sea If you need someone You can run to me

I pray that the river will always run to the sea, that he will always run to me.

I believe so deeply in this. I might lose my faith in so much, but I never seem to lose faith in song. I remember once, all those years ago when I was observing my three baby owls, I couldn’t find them one afternoon, so I took a little drum out to a glade that I love and played a rhythm on it while singing a Tori Amos tune, my eyes closed so I could feel the full energy of the song.

When I opened my eyes, one of the baby owls streaked past me, a white and brown blur, and then she disappeared into the shadowy grove of trees just beyond.

I knew she heard me and liked my song and wanted to let me know that she was there, somewhere just beyond where I could see.

© Yael Wolfe 2020

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