On finding my purpose again after loss.

In April, Ingenue You When went back to NYC for an appearance at The Green Room 42.  Revisiting the show was marvelous, we had a great crowd, and it went so well that we started talking about taking our little show on the road.  And two weeks later, my father died. The world stopped, and all I can tell you is that I really wasn’t there, or anywhere. He was and is all I can think about - the sadness just kind of comes unbidden. And singing, this thing that I do, that makes me “me,” felt, feels, out of the question. 

But my dad’s memorial service loomed. I knew I’d have to sing before we even planned it. To be clear, I didn’t want to because I did not want this to be happening at all. I could barely open my mouth to speak without weeping, much less sing. Every time I tried, my throat tightened with the tell-tale fight-or-flight response of the autonomic nervous system responding to emotion; in other words, a lump in the throat followed by a complete inability to make sound and then copious tears.

Still, how could I not honor my dad, this man who set me on my path and cheered me at every turn, how could I not do the thing he loved so much in me? My brother was direct: “Your singing was one of Dad’s favorite things and that’s what he’d want.”  And future-me, no matter how hard now-me resisted, would also want to have sung at her father’s funeral.

A little about my dad: he was so smart and funny, he was ridiculously well-read and well-written and a perfectly imperfect human, and he was my champion in all things, most especially my music.  His obituary is here, if you’d like to read about Himself, and there’s more on Facebook.

Loss comes for all of us.  Mine is no more devastating than yours; losing the generation ahead of us is the way of things, as awful as that is.  But losing this human in my life was a blow for which I was not nearly ready (are we ever?). It seemed, nonsensically, that if I spoke about him or expressed myself in any way I would lose him - pieces of him would float away from me and I wouldn’t get them back.

His service was set about a month-ish after he died; it was simple and direct and beautiful, and economical per his request. It was also a family affair: my dad would not have wanted a mass - although he was part of a large Irish-Catholic family, organized religion wasn’t really his thing anymore. My brother-in-law, a brilliant writer and public speaker, agreed to lead the service; my sister spoke so movingly; my brother brought the Derry comedy; my uncle John, Dad’s oldest sibling at 88, traveled despite the difficulties of age to eulogize him, too.  

After some back and forth about how the whole thing would go, I opened the service with the hymn “How Great Thou Art.”  My dad and I sang it pretty often in the St. Raphael’s Church Choir together when I was in high school. He was tone deaf, FYI, but as one half of the choir’s tenor section his presence was more necessary than his talent. Thank goodness the other tenor could sing.  Ostensibly, my dad joined so we could spend time together; the car ride over was spent listening to this one cassette tape we had of Kiri Te Kanawa and the St. Paul’s Cathedral Choir - we’d “warm up” to Mozart’s Ave Verum, a lovely choral work, and giggle about how “good old St. Raph’s” could never match St. Paul’s. He loved our choir and had serious opinions about music - no guitar mass for him, no contemporary tunes, thank you very much. And so “How Great Thou Art” quickly became our favorite - his mother, my Gronkie (long story…) had loved it, and I sang it for her at her funeral. And for my great Uncle Bill; and for my Uncle Mike; and for my dad’s best friend and law partner. The poetry talks about God, certainly, but also of the awe to be found in the cycle of life and the living of it. The tune is gorgeous, stately, with sweeping upward phrases in a major key - just the ticket. I sang a capella - hiring a pianist did not fit the directive for economy. I hoped folks would join to the extent it was right for them and they did, although the only person I could really hear was my dad, never able to stay on the tenor line and drifting to the melody, in the wrong key, but a key nonetheless. 

“The Parting Glass“ closed the service. It’s a traditional air that you’ve probably heard. The Scots claim it, but so do the Irish, and who knows, really.  I use it sometimes to end my concerts, and it has a dark, bog-like melody - to me, it’s so unmistakably Irish-sounding - minor-ish key, raising a glass to leaving friends. Mashups are easy to arrange if you’re only doing it for yourself, so I threw in a bit of “Danny Boy” for good measure; I’m sure Dad picked up on it. 

I got through it, but barely. And after that I didn’t want to sing again. I couldn’t.  I would try, but it was as if my gargantuan effort to keep it together for the service drained my gems, like in DuoLingo. That fight-or-flight response that I had kept at bay for the service came roaring back and I would break down uncontrollably.  This went on for what felt like months.  I ignored nice messages from well-meaning, loving friends coaxing me back. (sorry, everyone.) In my nonsensical grief, I could not grasp that life, a musical life, would continue without the guy who got me here in the first place.  

It was my friend Paul who challenged me on this; you see, he would be getting married to the love of his life, his Joe, in Tuscany, and we were invited.  Would I sing?  

And once again, how could I say no?   How do you say no to your dear friends after 22 years of waiting, who were at your wedding, who’d befriended your whole family and picked you up so many times over the years? You don’t, it seems.  I could just hear my Dad: Don’t hide, don’t shirk your responsibilities because you’ve been hurt.  He lost his own dad when he was 8; my Gronkie had six kids aged 2-17 -  can you imagine - and they went on. Stay home?  Be sad?  Certainly not.  He’d say go to Tuscany, visit Florence while you’re at it and by the way, here’s a tome about the Medici and remember that book I gave you on Brunelleschi and his dome?  Did you read it? Yes, Dad. 

Paul’s asks?: “The Light In The Piazza” from musical of the same - fitting for a palazzo in Tuscany that has its own sun-drenched square in the middle and is a model for studying the discovery of vanishing perspective so vaunted in Renaissance art - and the grooms’ fave tune, “And This Is My Beloved” from Kismet. Neither tune is musically or vocally light. “Beloved” would be performed with a string quartet that featured Paul himself on cello. At the ceremony. No biggie.

Paul said, “Let’s just work and see where we go” (he knows my instrument well, he’s coached me over the years and brought me into his musical fold).  So we worked, a little at a time  And I cried, a lot of the time. I practiced, and cried some more.  And eventually it was easier. You see, the vibrations of singing are healing: singing activates your parasympathetic nervous system (see paragraph 2), which in turn releases dopamine and serotonin.  It reduces stress, simplistically speaking.  In a way, singing is an antidepressant.

My dad, before he ever thought he might leave this earth, gave me this gift for taking care of myself, for finding my way. He couldn’t know that through his unconditional support of my art, my crazy dream to sing, that he’d also be saving my life.  

Off we went to Tuscany, and I sang, dear reader. I was not the only one - there were great jazz artists, a storied composer and lyricist, a truly beautiful operatic soprano, a concert pianist, a string quartet.  Even Joe, Paul’s husband (an architect by trade, mind you) performed - he played guitar and he sang! There was such great joy, such awe for one another, such passion for making music and for life and the living of it at that wedding. 

This moment came when I knew I would make it through my part in the ceremony, come hell or high water or tears, at a wine tasting organized for the group. The afore-mentioned string quartet made their wedding-week debut between tastings, and the tune that wafted out over the casks was Mozart’s Ave Verum. I gasped. Here it was, 4000 miles away, no cassette tape this time, completely unbidden. It was as if my dad popped in to check on me and say, keep going.  Enjoy this time, then go home and keep going.

And I remembered something else: my dad’s own thoughts on the subject of living.  I’ll let my sister’s beautiful eulogy do the talking:

“With his death comes the beginning of the next chapter. It’s one that we are commanded to write and edit, develop and mold with Dad, Peter E. Derry, cheering us along, urging us to be thoughtful, open minded, a little mischievous and playful and to do it all with style but not a lot of fuss. 

Dad always helped us with our homework, teaching, dispensing advice and encouragement. I’m going to call on him one more time to help me finish my assignment. My sister Susan happened across a note he had written, left in his desk. It’s printed on the back of your programs. I’ll read it out loud, leaving you with a little life advice from our dad.

He wrote -

with passion live

with attentiveness love

with courage imagine

with integrity communicate

with perspective play

in all things and in all your ways

build your legacy with joy

Love you Dad. Thank you.”

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Thank you, thank you for reading. Thank you for coming, as we Derry’s say.

As mentioned, there was music, beautiful music - you can watch the magic at Sounds of the City @sotcnyc on Instagram, and I highly suggest you follow to get info on their always-sold-out summer season! Scroll down for my clip.

If you want to know about my upcoming concerts click here.

Info on the sun-drenched palazzo is here.

Thank you to Stefania and Camilla at ilia_boutique_chianciano for outfitting us on short notice and treating us like friends, and for introducing us to Alessio who kept his shoe store, Leo & Marzia Calzature, open past noon so we could find palazzo-proof shoes. Kind people are everywhere.