I’d like to teach the world to sing…

Or just Z.

I sing to her.

From the time in the hospital, I sang to her “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” (the “wim-mo-way” seemed appropos to a baby with no speech.)

I sang her my favourite Christmas Hymn (“Oh Holy Night”) during her first Christmas.

[As an aside, I was carrying my godson in church about 14 years ago, and this Hymn was being sung. So I sang. And my godson cried. Because absent the meaning of the words in the hymn, the tune is very mournful, and my godson responded to the conveyed tone and emotion in the hymn. I never realised how mournful, “O Holy Night” was until my godson taught me that.]

I sang her my favourite song for singing (“Impossible Dream”).

And now I sing her “Annie’s Song”, “Perhaps Love”, “Empty Chairs”, and “Gypsy” (Suzanne Vega).

I sing to her so often that, now, if she is in the mood, she would join in.

She doesn’t know the words and she doesn’t know how to carry a tune, but she will try to vocalise when I sing to her.

It is funny, and cute… and amazing!

[Feb 6 update. I found this article. Singing together releases oxytocin and attunes emotions – fostering bonding. Hmmm…]

This is my favourite to sing to her. Especially the line about the baby who will not fall asleep.

Gypsy – Suzanne Vega

You come from far away with pictures in your eyes
Of coffee shops and morning streets and the blue and silent sunrise
But night is the cathedral where you recognise the signs
We strangers know each other now as part of the whole design

Oh, hold me like a baby that will not fall asleep
Curl me up inside you and let me feel you through the heat


You’re the jester of this courtyard with a smile like a girl’s
Distracted by the women with the dimples and the curls
By the pretty, and the mischievous, by the timid and the blessed
By the blowing skirts of ladies who promise to gather you to their breasts

Oh hold me like a baby that will not fall asleep
Curl me up inside you and let me feel you through the heat


You have hands of raining water, and the earring in your ear
The wisdom of your face denies the number of your years
With the fingers of the potter and the laughing tale of the fool
The arranger of disorder with your strange and simple rules.

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