Seeking Solace
“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”
The chanting floats into the room, softly building momentum, and then soars upwards to the vaulted roof. The voices catch in the ceiling fan and drift out to the deck, where they are carried on a breeze towards where I sit by the pond. The chanting, considered both meditation and prayer, wraps around me, bringing comfort. Gregorian Chants provide me with the solace that I need during these unsettled, chaotic times. What brings you solace?
Everything Zoomer, a lifestyle magazine for those 45+, is currently featuring a series, Art for Trying Times, inviting authors to nominate a work they turn to for solace or perspective during this pandemic. I took a peek at some of the articles to see what others turn to during these times.
Books, authors, and classical literature were the predominant features – including P. G. Wodehouse, The Little Prince, Sense and Sensibility, and Chaucer’s poem, Troilus and Criseyde. None of these resonated for me, however, they did evoke similar emotions.
Carly Osborn, a visiting research fellow at the University of Adelaide shares that there are books she turns to when her emotional capacity is near nil – airport fiction or beach reading – “escapist silliness” that provides her distraction and entertainment. But lately, when “fear and uncertainty have become a constant background sensation” and “grief and despair flow in and out of her consciousness like a grim tide” she needs more than a distraction, she needs “something that will demand nothing of me, but which is, in every other respect, absolutely perfect.” She picks up P.G. Wodehouse, who restores her soul by providing a prose of perfect balm.
From her shelf of well-loved books, Julia Kindt, a professor in the Department of Classics and Ancient History at the University of Sydney, chose the Little Prince. She shares that the book’s narrator finds himself in a situation that uncannily resembles her own, “stuck in a place that seemingly provided little hope of surprise or wonder”. She compares our experience of taking a fresh look at things closer to home during this lockdown, to the experiences in the Little Prince. She draws a parallel “about how we see only what we are prepared to see; about the narrowness that can come with our perspectives, professional and otherwise; about the way grownups and children look at the world differently”.
In Jane Austen’s, Sense and Sensibility, Elinor and Marianne are forced out of their home and into a cottage in a small village that offers no social life. They find themselves with no external stimuli, other than nature, “with which to fuel their inner thoughts and mutual exchanges”. Elinor sketches and paints. Marianne practices her piano playing. They walk daily, sew and read. A short walk can occupy two hours, they read for long stretches of time. Judith Armstrong, an Honorary Fellow of the School of Languages and Linguistics at the University of Melbourne writes that now that lack of time is no longer an excuse for many of us, we might think of emulating them – except the sisters had each other, “a daily companion who provides companionship and stimulation”. Armstrong states that these days when the phone is our only companion, it may not be a sufficient substitute to “copy the sisters’ ability to introduce, develop, and thoroughly draw out a conversation”.
Other articles featured music, including compilations of pandemic playlists. Jen Webb, Dean of Graduate Research at the University of Canberra wrote about Leonard Cohen, “singing sadness to sadness in these anxious times”. Cohen soothed and smoothed her wounded teenage heart when she had to confront uncertainty, loss, and grief without script or rehearsal”. For her, Cohen’s music was like homeopathy, a small dose of sadness to counter her sadness. And now, decades later, she still turns to Cohen for solace, and these days “it is the words, the phrasing, (and) their conjuring of mood and image” that work on her.
These days I read a lot. But for me, reading is pure escapism, except for the odd poem or essay that offers an explanation or reassurance that I am coping. Gregorian Chants however are the balm, that when applied, soothe the uncertainty and fear that I hold in my head and in my heart.
I was first introduced to Gregorian Chants in a college writing course taught by the poet, Claudia Lapp. We were working on right and left brain thinking and she invited us to write while listening to different types of music. I usually wrote in silence, too easily distracted by man-made sounds, but the chanting was transformative. The chanting reverberated through my body and calmed my thoughts. I have since learned that mantra repetition in the ancient languages of Sanskrit and rosary repetition in Latin benefit the heart and slow the breath rate, stimulating the parasympathetic nervous system, calming the hyper-vigilance that can be found in high states of anxiety and PTSD. Simple ancient chant scales were also used prescriptively many years ago to treat chronic illness. These scales are similar to human vocal patterns, and it has been suggested that their healing power is related to something inherently whole already within us.
Gregorian chants have been sung by religious orders in their chapels for hundreds of years. The Roman Catholic Church still officially considers it the music most suitable for worship. The songs are actual prayers. They are meant to bring a meditative spirituality to Mass.
The chants are typically sung in unison without rhyme, meter, or musical accompaniment, with the tones rising and falling in an unstructured pattern. There are no harmonies or melodies – there is no arranging. They are simply voices coming together.
Gregorian chants were featured in one of my favourite murder mysteries by Louise Penny, The Beautiful Mystery. Penny extensively researched the music and wrote in the prologue to the book that, “no one knew what the original chants sounded like. There was no written record of the earliest chants. They were so old, more than a millennium, that they predated written music. They were learned by heart . . . there was power in [their] very simplicity. The first chants were soothing, contemplative, magnetic. They had such a profound effect on those who sang and heard them that the ancient chants became known as ‘The Beautiful Mystery.’ The monks believed they were singing the word of God.
Life is also a bit of a mystery these days. Knowing that this music has survived for more than a millennium provides a certain comfort. However, the sheer power of voices coming together, driven by a deep belief, brings me solace and perspective during this pandemic.
What about you? Is there an art form or work of art that resonates with you during this time of uncertainty?