Christine's Story
Let the water carry our heart songs far and wide, like a message in a bottle
Welcome to The Heart Song, a publication and movement sharing stories of hope from humanity. Here you will witness voices from around the world sharing their voice through story - their heart’s song. Today we hear from Christine on freeing her voice, the power of the water to hold us and carry us, and letting our voices be heard. Thank you for being here. Thank you for your vulnerability. Thank you for supporting this movement. Thank you for loving in all the ways that you do.
I woke up too early today. Already, tears hovered, threatening my plans. Cracking me open to something unexpected.
A dear friend just received hard news. After a heroic series of cutting-edge treatments for his rare brain melanoma, he’s near the end. His doctor estimates just three to six months of life.
In light of our friend’s short, liminal lifespan, I take on an experiment. To act as if I, too, have just a few precious months left on planet Earth.
Do you take being alive for granted? You’re not alone. We’re invested in our to-do lists, expecting another day and another year. We deny the reality of our deaths. Yet nothing is more clarifying. What really matters?
If you had just three months to live, what would change? How would a pending expiration date affect me? My relationships? How will I spend my energy? What choices will rearrange themselves?
Hoping to clear the tears behind my eyes, I take deep, calming breaths. I tune in to a bigger perspective, the ever-present river of joy, but it’s no use. Like a baby ready to be born, these tears will come. I set aside my morning routine and invite grief to rise up from my belly. The heaviness in my chest floods my heart, and moves into my my throat.
Does your throat ever clench down, hard? This ache feels as if something must burst out from the bottom of your soul. But there’s also an invisible hand, squeezing your larynx. This hand says, “No. Your voice shall not open. Or speak truth.”
I’ve long lived with this fist in my throat. It’s common among women. An inheritance of our lineage. Generations of subjugation and actively stifled voices that persist today. I spent much of my adulthood healing the wounds that shut down my voice. Now I have the great privilege, in this time and place, to open my voice, and cry.
The ache flows through. Hot tears drench my cheeks. I honk my nose into wet scraps of tissues. Water is life. My saltwater tears are the same seawater that I go to daily to revive my heart.
It’s before 5 a.m., before sunrise. Mama Ocean calls to me like a siren. I walk down 108 steps to the Salish Sea. This ache wants to become a song, and it’s dying to come out. It’s urgent and vital to free this heart song now, while I’m still alive.
Tears rise again as I open my voice to sing across the dark waters, glistening with moonshine. I sing for all the voices that have not been heard, the songs that won’t be sung. This heart song is wild. Free. Raw. With belly-deep growls, sweet lullabies, and soothing murmurations of love. She calls something in us to awaken, to rise up, to claim our birthright, our aliveness. To claim this moment now. She sings:
“You are not alone. You weave the web of life with the beat of your pulse and the tones of your voice. Each one dancing, spiraling with energy, you connect to the all.”
I harmonize with the ocean often, but not like this. When I swim and sing, an adorable seal usually pops his head up to look at me, drawn to the frequencies he can feel below the waves. I sing, “Hello, my brother. Thanks for coming around. How’s it going down in the ocean?”
If this early morning heart song was heard only by a little seal, the careening seagulls, the eagles, the cedars, and madrona trees that arch over the water, is that enough? Will I share it on a street corner, open mic, or on TikTok? Perhaps.
I believe the water itself carries the songs far and wide. Like a message in a bottle. The wild tones, the sweetness, the ache for what we are losing, the longing for what we love, the fear, the rage — there’s medicine in all of it. Who will receive it? We don’t always know. It’s a mystery.
How will you express the ache in your chest? Will you uncork that bottle, and share it? What does your heart song sound like?
Your song is a shapeshifter that takes many forms. It’s the way you hold a little one. How you show up for a friend who feels devastated by life. It’s the way you dance, light on your feet. It’s how you write to your auntie who’s been there for you. And it’s how you stand up for peaceful solutions.
If you feel called to claim your voice as a singer, put your feet on the ground of the earth. Let her hold you. Listen to her song. Let it rise up in your bones, flow through your veins, and move up from your gut through your heart to your throat center. Invite your full, open-hearted song to arise. I can’t wait to hear it.
Sing with others. Magnify your intention with strength and joy. Join a safe circle of folks who can hold songs from the heart. Share your vulnerable voice with trusted mates. Find a home where your voice can take risks, and take flight.
Trust this: Your brave voice matters. We need the medicine of your heart song, its unique timbre, textures, and color. We may not be here long. What will you sing today?
Thank you for these beautiful and inspiring words, Christine!
Eloquent expression, Christine. Thank you for sharing the rawness - and realness - of your human experience. And thank you, Kaitlyn, for curating this sacred space.