12 May 25th–May 31st, 2023 phoenixnewtimes.com phoenix new Times | music | cafe | film | culTuRe | NighT+Day | feaTuRe | NeWs | OPiNiON | feeDBacK | cONTeNTs | The choir routinely utilize what they call “the chair” during practices. With a member — or a willing Phoenix New Times writer — reclined in a zero gravity seat, a group of three or four gathers and sings in the round. It’s an experience for sure, and one that reminds you of the earnest but potent power of being sung to, especially nondenominational ditties like “Sending You Light.” It’s a powerful rein- troduction to music, and how it can strip away stress, tension and even a sense of physical space. “It’s important to learn what it feels like to receive as well as to give,” Rampley says of the chair practice. “So that’s a good way of letting people begin to feel like they’re emotionally ready.” Choir members, though, get to see the true power when they perform. They each have handfuls of stories that highlight how their work impacts people. “One of the most poignant times was going into a private home to sing for someone that [the choir] knew personally,” Gattorna says. “It’s that intimate sharing of this fragile moment, whether it’s a healing moment, or indeed a moment for setting up the passing of life.” “We can visibly watch them slow their breathing and calm down. Sometimes they’ll just go into a calm sleep because they’ve not been able to because of pain or medication’s side effects,” she adds. Rampley remembers two especially poignant moments. The first involved an older man, a demographic several members said is notorious for being unre- ceptive to the choir’s efforts. “One time a man who had a real strong Texas accent said, ‘Well, ma’am, I don’t think anybody ever sang a song to me,’” she says. “And I said, ‘Your mom might have sung a lullaby to you long ago.’ So music is a direct route to the heart.” ‘Will the singers be here today?’ The other story involved someone who’d spent his life seemingly disconnected from the world. “There was a young man that was developmentally challenged and also had some physical handicaps,” Rampley says. “And we didn’t know whether it would be appropriate to sing for him or not. So we quietly within our little group decided we’d try one song and we’d see how it went. At the end of the song, he reached up and touched my cheek and said, ‘Mama.’ I had to hold it together for a couple more songs.” As Wadell points out across a couple of her own stories, their singing not only touches the lives of patients, but their families and friends, too. “Just the other day, we were singing to a patient when a family member walked in,” she says. “Before we sang the next song, we introduced ourselves. And she said, ‘I’m so grateful that I came before you left. I don’t know if it’s helped Dad, but this is what I needed to hear today.’” It’s even about going beyond moments of relief to forge deeper connections. “There was one family that we had sung for the gentleman the week before,” Wadell says. “Then the next week when we went, he was actively passing. The nurse told us before we went in that his wife had said, ‘Will the singers be here today?’” “We had a nice conversation with the family and then we sang. Typically we sing three or four songs with some space in between. We probably spent 30 minutes in that room with a family and they wrote a note afterward and left it with the nurse,” she adds. Oftentimes, it’s less about healing and more about providing peace of mind. “One woman told us that she had an elephant on her chest, and after we sang to her, the elephant was gone,” Rampley recounts. And through that act of relief, big things can take root. “Our hope would be that we would bring comfort or open a door, perhaps, that’s been closed for someone,” Wadell says. “[These songs] allow people to go to a place within themselves that they hadn’t been able to before. Or realized that they wanted to be there.” Oversized emotions The door-opening metaphor goes both ways; the choir members have seen their own relationships with dying shift over the years. “I will say that it was my expectation when I thought we’d be singing bedside that we’d have some trouble,” Gattorna says, that “it would be troubling to me to see these people near death.” But Gattorna, and some others, had the decidedly opposite reaction. “Probably 99.9 percent of the time, I don’t feel moved to tears,” Gattorna says. “And maybe on three [occasions] I’ve seen people pass away right in front of me. While it was a very moving experience, I didn’t feel traumatized myself. That was a surprise to me.” Gattorna says she and other choir members rely on one another for working through those oversized emotions. “Sometimes I do feel it’s necessary to shutter what I am feeling,” Gattorna says of singing. “At rehearsal, we process. ‘What did you hear? What were you seeing? Is there anything we need to talk about? How could we change it?’ We un-shutter what- ever I was feeling that I couldn’t show at the time.” Their cohesion as a unit keeps people coming back for years. Wadell calls it “being a part of the journey.” Booth adds that the experiences help choir members bond. “For many people, this is a really impor- tant part of their circle of friends and support. You become quite close. It seems to draw people who want to relate in that way. I think a lot of people are surprised at how important their rehearsal time is in bonding with each other,” she says. In the case of Rampley, she knows first- hand how the choir can help make death feel less all-consuming. “In 2022, my husband was bedridden, became a paraplegic and passed away,” she says. “Well, during that time, I had nothing to give to the choir. I was giving everything I had at home. Cindy just picked up Cindy Gattorna A group picture of the The Phoenix West Threshold Choir at a private song bath. Marilyn Rampley Several Southwest chapters of threshold choirs gathered in Phoenix during a recent retreat and rehearsed with volunteers in zero gravity seats. Threshold from p 10 >> p 14
