I sing for the dying.

We come into the world through our mothers, in messiness and effort. When we are born, a thousand silent throats sing us into being. If we are strong enough, we raise our own throats and welcome ourselves into uncertain worlds with a single exploratory cry.

We are here.

Dying is much the same as birth. We live in a culture that avoids death, fears it, puts it away in dimly-lit nursing home rooms that are sparsely furnished with the fading memories of 30,000 sunrises and 30,000 sunsets.

I sing for the dying.

I sit quietly, reverently, with two or three other women, at the bedsides of people who know the that their remaining number of breaths is dwindling with each exhalation. Together we join heartbeats and throats, creating a soft river of song that floats away gently, carrying with it one weary traveler.

In other countries, other cultures, the luxury of pushing death away to a quiet lonely room doesn't exist. Death is present, a part of life, and everything remains more alive as a result. Ironic, isn't it?

I sing with the Threshold Choir, a now international organization with chapters in many communities, women who come together in soul and in song with compassionate voices. With these women, mostly older than I and many of them professional caregivers, I feel a connection to the reverence of life and to the incredible intimacy of death. Not everyone feels guided to this kind of work but those of us who do feel we've found a home.

Recently I had the gift of singing with two other women to a woman who was their neighbor and friend. Truly, what better gift can you give another person than by really being present as they move out of the world into another phase of reality? There was a poignant mix of pain and joy on the faces of my companions as together we sang to their friend in her last few hours of life.

I hope that one day someone will sing for me and, too, receive a gift of my trust in that moment.