“Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them!”
―from “The Voiceless,” by Oliver Wendell Holmes
I ran across an approximation of this quote in my mother’s journal entry for July 28, 1999. Specifically, her journal reads, “‘Alas for those who never sing (or write), but die with their music (or words and thoughts) within them.’” At the top of that page in her journal she wrote, “Dedication to writing.” Repeatedly throughout the pages of her journal, Mother expressed a desire to write about her own faith journey as a way to encourage others.
But I know of very little that she did to make that desire a reality. She wrote a few essays and even won a prize for one. She wrote at least one research paper for her Questors group. Still, even her journal is mostly a collection of thoughts from her readings, rather than her personal insights. But she often wrote she wanted to do more.
From the frequent mentions of her wish to write, I conclude that Mother was discouraged by her inability to do more than take notes on her scriptural and meditative readings. I don’t know if it was time or talent or personality that kept her from writing more, from possibly publishing what she wrote. But she never got around to doing much with her writing.
“Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them!”
The quote from Holmes haunts me now. It tells me Mother knew her words and thoughts were going unexpressed, and yet did little to change the situation.
In 1999, when she jotted down this Holmes quote, she still had several more years of good life ahead of her. I first noticed signs of Alzheimer’s in mid-2007, eight years after she wrote this journal entry. In 2009, she had some physical problems which intensified her symptoms of dementia, and in 2010, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
From that point on, her words and thoughts were not only unexpressed but rapidly stolen by the insidious disease that ultimately claimed her life. By 2013, she spoke very little. At that point, she had no words left to express. What thoughts she had were hard to decipher.
She told me in mid-2013, “I don’t want to lose you.” Which told me she knew she was losing her connections with friends and family. She tried to hold on, but she couldn’t.
Not only could she not express her thoughts, she couldn’t read—one of her greatest sources of enjoyment stolen along with her memory. For without short-term memory, she could not retain what she read from one page to the next.
My mother died five years ago tomorrow, on July 4, 2014.
I am left behind to read her journal, searching for the words and thoughts she did not publish, searching for what she chose not to reveal during her lifetime. It is, of course, ultimately a fruitless journey, because she is not there to validate my search. She did lose me, and I lost her.
“Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them!”
As I have been reading her journal, I have vowed to choose a different path than my mother. I choose to write and not to die with my words and thoughts bottled up inside me. I know I will never get everything written, but I will write what I can.
But there is more to this story. I looked up “The Voiceless” and read Holmes’ whole poem from which this quote is taken. Here are more lines from the poem:
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory!
And it ends:
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
The entirety of the poem reveals that Holmes did not intend to mourn the unspoken songs (and words) so much as to give them tribute, to weep for the voiceless as well as the famous. Because the songs (words) of the voiceless, though unsung, create melodies that are no less felt than those whose voices are recognized. The unsung melodies are felt, not only by the voiceless, but also by God.
In many ways, my mother was one of the voiceless, someone who felt what every human feels, but did not have the fame of publishing her thoughts and words. But if her “hidden pangs” were given voice, they would be as melodious as any. And I must honor them.
So today, I think about the voiceless like my mother. Though I still vow to not be among them.
This is lovely, Theresa.
Thank you, Linda.