It is the first day of my new year and I am still singing.

In the decade following what one doctor called “the catastrophic death” of my beloved husband after 47 years of an exceptional marriage, I am still learning to walk alone. Walking on with big steps and little ones, (and occasionally big crashes–yes, even still) I am crafting a new life for myself. Most of all, while I have this unexpected, painful, sweet gift of a new solitary life it is important for me to assert that I am still singing.

When I was a girl singing was everywhere. At home I grew up hearing Pete Seeger protest songs, (Which side are you on, boys?), sea shanties like Blow the Man Down (The sailors sang because it helped give them strength to get the work done, explained my father), nonsense songs from Burl Ives (I met an old woman who swallowed a spider—pause for delicious emphasis—that wriggled and tiggled and tiggled inside of her), mournful ballads like Barbara Allen, and of course, Sempre Libre from my mother’s glorious Saturday Afternoon at the Opera, where the Metropolitan opera’s great gold curtain swung up on weekly performances.

In the post-war days when I went to school, it was supposed that Music was as necessary for a well-rounded student as English and Arithmetic. With a slim budget these lessons took the form of a classroom singing period. It was assumed that it was important to read music and keep a tune. Why? I was told at school and at home that this was a useful skill which everyone needed and which would stand us in good stead throughout our lives. I watched in fascination as the teacher drew the staff on the board with a device holding five pieces of chalk, and learned about whole notes, half notes and pauses. (Although nobody thought like that then, I suppose deciphering sheet music was an elementary form of coding.) The immediate goal of these music lessons was to practice songs which the class would perform at the yearly Kiwanis festival. Unfortunately, the songs we polished all year were numbing — “I am the crust, which you put under your plate…” Awful. And anyway, how did the person who wrote this song know about the crusts under my plate? Now is the month of Maying… Tedious, but a little better. And Masters in this Hall and The Holly and the Ivy, harking back to earlier tonalities, filled with images, still among my Christmas favourites.

All the songs from my small world burrowed deep into me and kept me company on my very long walk home from school.

In time, as I walked the oval line in front of the US embassy, doing my small bit to protest civil rights and Vietnam, I joined in fervently as we sang We shall overcome, a song which still makes me cry.

Later, in an apartment high over the old part of Quebec city I sang to my lover, and we loved each other more.

Later still, I sang to unsleepy babies, and yes, the song about wriggling spiders came in handy again, and the Pennsylvania Dutch, Schlof Bobbeli Schlof and Walk shepherdess walk, and I’ll come too, and indeed, tender songs from mothers worldwide. In those times it was still easy to pick up traditional folk songs on CBC, the music of the people.

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And then, during the comfortless winter days after I had said goodbye to the best part of my world, I set out each day to walk over the stone cold road, keeping moving, one step at a time. It came to me that although I was nowhere near close to being able to open to the new life ahead, survival was going to mean being open, or as open as I could be, to happiness and even joy. There were no maps, but the one thing which might make the going easier was singing.

So, what songs?

Some of the faith songs from Sunday school, simply because they had conviction:  Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow. My beloved yoga teacher, Nancy Williams’ favorite by Cat Stevens:

Morning has Broken

Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world 

I hummed my favorite Yoga chant:

Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti-he. Peace, Pea-he-he-he-ce Peace,

Not You are My Sunshine”.

Eventually I discovered that my cats liked my singing, I suspect because they knew singing days were likely to be cheerier ones. I made up a silly Happy Caturday song and a variant on The Maple Leaf Rag and several others just for them.

Often, even still, I go back to a catchy wartime piece I heard growing up: Sing, sing, sing, sing everybody’s got to sing 

Keep going. Keep singing.

Everybody’s got to sing.