Thirteen months have passed since we in Washington fled our offices and shops, games and gathering places. The pandemic touched other places first, and sometimes worse. Everywhere, it seemed, fear was in the very air we breathed.
Where would this mysterious illness pop up next, or more frighteningly, who would it strike next? We watched reports of those stricken breathless a half a world away on the evening news. Or read about the constant wail of ambulance sirens, echoing on distant city streets, from our quiet woodland suburbs. Amid the horror of an unknown illness sprinting around the globe, so many of us reached out instinctively to hug family and friends close… Only to be warned back: this invisible ailment passed among us on the breath of commiseration and the tears of consolation.
The coronavirus may have surged into our consciousness in spring, as days in the northern hemisphere grew longer and sunrises earlier, but in hindsight those months seem darker, longer. Maybe it was the sleeplessness of those weeks. Tossing and turning after doomscrolling bad news in 24 time zones, sleep started late. Dawn came at its usual appointed time, but now unwarrantedly early. And for so many nights, restless dreams of separation deprived the hours in-between of refreshment or peace.
Songs of peace when we could not sing
One of the stories from the early days of the pandemic struck me as particularly heartbreaking. A church choir here in Washington had met for its usual practice, standing shoulder to shoulder in peaceful community as it had for years. No one could know the virus joined the singers that night. Passing easily breath to breath, like notes floating on the spring night air, it sickened 53, and killed two.
Information spread almost as quickly in the scientific community: This virus behaves something like viciously contagious measles, spreading in the air — especially among people closely packed in an enclosed space. People scattered to keep their safe distance. And their mouths closed, or else smiled and spoke from behind homemade masks, lest we harm others or ourselves.
How can we sing when we are not together? (I sing with the radio in the shower, but even if everyone in the Puget Sound sang the same song in their showers at the same time, I wouldn’t count that as ‘singing together.’) And then I remembered how…
Light and Gold and Sleep
Every now and then, my YouTube channel reminds me of what I watched X-number of years ago. And so I recalled tonight that one place I turned for peace and community when those seemed in short supply was Eric Whitacre’s Virtual Choirs.
Timothy and I watched this Ted Talk (about Whitacre’s Lux Aurumque) together many times. We then sought out each full-length video when it was released. I listened to the companion piece, Sleep, again tonight — sipping my wine as I remembered us, years ago… holding hands, sipping our wine, and smiling.
I hope it helps you smile, and sleep, too.