The Human Voice

I have just learned that Australian music journalist, Glen A Baker passed away overnight. I dedicate this reflection in his memory. Rest well, Glen.

Firefly Reflection

There are nine of us in this a cappella ensemble called Gunpowder Plot.

Nine different lives.

Nine different personalities.

Nine different stories.

Somehow, all nine of us found our way to Stay Tuned Choir. Out of that choir, this smaller ensemble was born.

I've often found myself wondering about things like that.

How do nine people, each living completely different lives, somehow end up in the same room, singing the same music at the same time?

Our most challenging piece has been an a cappella arrangement of Life on Mars.

Without instruments, there is nowhere to hide.

Every breath matters.

Every entry matters.

Every voice matters.

The arrangement is built around intentional moments of dissonance. The harmonies lean against one another, creating tension that builds until it feels like we've reached the top of a hill.

Every instinct wants the tension to resolve.

But it doesn't.

Not yet.

The music asks us to stay there.

To trust that the tension belongs.

Then, almost without noticing, everything changes. The harmony opens, and the music carries us gently down the other side into resolution... before beginning the climb all over again.

I've realized that the resolution is only so beautiful because we first experienced the dissonance.

Without darkness, we don't appreciate the light.

Without tension, resolution is simply another chord.

As we've rehearsed, I've found myself reflecting on the extraordinary nature of the human voice.

Unlike a piano or a guitar, our voice isn't something we hold.

We carry it within us.

It changes with sleep, illness, emotion, confidence, and age.

It is perhaps the most human instrument we have.

And because of that, it is wonderfully fragile.

Singing together in this small a cappella ensemble feels incredibly exposing.

There are no instruments to soften the edges.

No place to hide.

When we sing, we offer something of ourselves.

Our voices carry more than notes. They carry our breath, our vulnerability, and our humanity.

What has surprised me most, though, is what this experience has taught me about empathy.

I used to think singing was mostly about finding the right notes.

I've realized it's much more about listening.

Listening closely enough to know when to step forward and when to step back.

Listening closely enough to hear when another voice needs support.

Listening closely enough that your own voice changes in response to the voices around you.

Perhaps empathy is much the same.

Not standing outside someone else's experience, trying to understand it from a distance.

But listening so carefully that we're willing to let it shape the way we respond.

In my professional life, I often encourage people to focus on the cans rather than the can'ts of someone living with dementia.

This choir has reminded me that the same principle applies to all of us.

None of us has a perfect voice.

None of us is a perfect listener.

None of us is a perfect teammate.

And yet together, we've created something that none of us could have created alone.

Tomorrow night we'll step onto a stage.

We'll be excited.

We'll almost certainly be nervous.

And somewhere between the dissonance and the resolution, nine wonderfully fragile human voices will tell a story.

Not just through the music.

But through the trust, the listening, and the empathy it has taken to sing it together.

Perhaps this is what empathy sounds like.

Where in your life are you being invited to step back so someone else's voice can be heard?

Until next time...

One of the unexpected places I've been learning about empathy recently hasn't been in a healthcare setting. It's been within a small a cappella ensemble. 

Without instruments, every human voice is exposed, revealing the essence of musical connection. 

I've realized that singing together effectively has very little to do with hearing yourself and almost everything to do with listening to everyone else. It's about listening closely enough to know when to step forward, when to step back, when to support another voice, and when to trust someone else to carry the melody. 

This experience made me wonder whether empathy operates in much the same way. 

Perhaps empathy isn't simply about understanding another person's experience; it involves allowing that experience to shape the way we respond. In healthcare, especially in leadership and dementia care, listening is not a passive skill. It influences our decisions, our communication, and our relationships. 

Listening without the willingness to adjust our responses is merely hearing. 

Empathy begins when listening changes us. 

When was the last time you listened so carefully that it transformed the way you responded?