Cantus: The Silence of Grief

In Arvo Pärt’s Cantus, a composition for orchestra and Orthodox bells, silence is written into the music. There are times when no musicians are playing, yet in this silence we hear reverberations of the notes recently played. We hear them even though no one is playing.

So it is in grief after a loved one has died. We still hear their voices reverberating in our hearts. We see their shadows moving through our days, and feel brushes of their touch, even though their bodies are physically gone.

The death of a loved one brings a great deal of unexpected silence into our lives. Silence where they used to say good morning. Silence in the kitchen when we are cooking dinner. Silence where they used to share the inconsequentials of their day.

Estonian composer Pärt’s wrote Cantus in memory of Benjamin Britton, a British composer of like mind he wanted to meet one day, knowing now that he never would. In Cantus, and in grief, we are waiting in the silence for something to happen. And we are not waiting, because something is happening. We are listening. 

In the space between what we’ve known and what is not yet here, we are listening for the unknown to arrive. We are listening for what is deeper, what is moving underneath the surface, and the tension we feel between grief and hope is almost unbearable, like salt and lime on the lips between hits of tequila. One by one, the string sections rise from the silence, grow in intensity, and affirm hope with the final ringing of the bell.

The bells in Cantus have meaning for Eastern Orthodox people. In their tradition, bells were rung to call people to stop what they are doing, remind them of their faith, and to honor their sorrow for those who had died. Remember, the bells say. Listen to the Spirit for guidance. 

It’s not uncommon for people to place wind chimes outside their homes. When wind chimes sing in the breeze, some of us hear our dead stopping by to remind us that they are still part of our lives. In the chimes we hear the music of our dead.

We are not used to the silence of home that death brings. Some of us can’t stand the quietness of the house when we’re alone, and play music or leave the television on so there are voices. When we gather with someone who is grieving, after the polite words have been spoken, and after the careful words, a silence of listening often settles between us. 

Now we have a choice. We can cover over the silence with surface words that don’t mean much, the dreaded platitudes, and the flip answers that say “I’m doing fine,” or we can take the risk of being vulnerable to each other. We can share the truth of how devastating grief is, and share how uneasy death makes us feel. As we listen to each other, we listen for what is moving deeper in our hearts, seeking guidance. This listening is a holy act.

It takes courage to share our despair and sorrow with others, and it takes courage to listen to someone we care about talk of their suffering. When words fall silent, our presence provides support.