I find that, when I’m panicked, I sing.
The more panicked I am, the louder I sing.
I suppose it’s what one might call a “coping mechanism”. My brain gets so overwhelmed that I start singing. Whistling while you work, I believe Disney put it that way.
The more overwhelming or sad I am, the louder I sing.
Is that what they mean by swan song? No, that’s a ballad of an artiste, isn’t it? It’s a beautiful reflection, a culminating experience on a large body of work that had no end in sight until, suddenly…
It just ends.
I don’t mind singing. I sing when I’m happy. I sing when I’m sad. It’s why we have music for every occasion. Humans love music, perhaps even more than we love language or words. We love to hum a tune, even when our words fail us. Our bodies move or tap to the rhythm, our ears perk up when we hear songs that bring back beautiful, wondrous memories. We sing for celebrating births, weddings, anniversaries. We sing for sadness and sorrow, at moments of grieving and on hospital beds.
When I panic, I sing. I sing louder than I should be. I sing in the shower where the acoustics, somehow, always seem to be pitch-perfect. The words of my favorite song of the day, somewhat mish-mashed by my faulty memory, echoing inside my head.
I sing to soothe, and that’s a wondrous thing.