Singing In The Dark

I’ve learned how to sing in most styles. I’ve turned singing upside down and emptied it out all over the floor, picking up each part and examining it until it didn’t mean anything to me anymore.

I spotted my fourth-class teacher at yoga the other day, I haven’t seen her in years. I recalled that she gave me my first singing solo, Mo Chaora Bhán (my white lamb) and I remembered singing in front of class and knowing I’d sung it well, but no one had taught me how.

At the end of my third ceremony of Ayahuasca at a retreat back in May, the Shaman invited anyone who had a song to sing it. I had spent the past six hours on my mat cowering and begging for forgiveness as I envisioned a giant hand of God pointing at me for being bad and commanding me to do better.

One of the men in the group volunteered first. He sang Dirty Old Town. It was very moving. In my head, I didn’t want to sing, I just wanted to lie down and cry. But I thought, for goodness’ sake, you were a singer as your job for almost two decades, you’d better sing! But if you sing, you’ll wobble and start to cry, and that’s not fair, singing is an offering for them.

One of the women volunteered next. She sang a beautiful song as Gaeilge; An Raibh Tú Ag An gCarraig? She gave a beautiful, earnest delivery of the song. I knew of her passion for the Irish language and her wish to revive it. I could feel her sincerity.

I’m still fighting a losing battle with the lump in my throat that won’t go away, but I feel like I have to be brave and do what’s right, and I must not cry.

So in what felt like the longest silence I said, “I’ll sing.”

I sang Suantraí ar Slánaitheoir (lullaby to our saviour), by Irish composer Fiontán Ó Cearbhaill.

I wasn’t sure if I would remember the words or pick the right key I just opened my mouth and let it happen.

As soon as I finished singing, my body collapsed. I didn’t realise it had been raised up.