Pamela Richards
This answer contains spoilers…
(view spoiler)[Singing from Silence was written in three phases, for three audiences. Each time, there was a different idea that prompted the writing.
I was undergoing a traumatic divorce when Richard died. At the time of his sudden death, Richard and I had not had a chance to say goodbye, or to resolve our differences about the nature of our relationship. Thinking about him became very painful for me after his death. The minimal demands of functioning in my life: raising my children, working, and caring for my elderly parents required me to shut down my memories of him.
Up until eleven years after his death, I succeeded in thinking about Richard very rarely.
In 2008, after both my parents had died, I finally began to mourn Richard and deal with my grief for him in my own way. As I was recovering from a surgery, someone gave me a copy of Musicophila by Oliver Sacks to read. The book described the effects of music on the memory and the mind.
Of course, Richard didn't need Oliver Sacks to remind him that music is a trigger to memory. A prodigy with the pronounced musicality that was his hallmark would have been well aware of all the effects his music had on his audience.
The more I read about the effects of music, the more I knew I wanted to hear Richard's music again. I also knew I would be torn to pieces when I listened his early songs. We had been very close during Richard's pre-Nashville days. The lyrics of several of his early songs, and even some of his more recent works contained references to our conversations.
As I began to listen, the circumstances surrounding our lives and our friendship flooded back. In order to deal with the memories, I began to write them down for my own benefit, simply to clear them from my mind. My life in general was something I had no impulse to write about. To me, it had meant nothing but chaos and pain. This first phase of the work that became Singing from Silence was written for me alone.
I had documented a series of anecdotes recalled from listening to his songs when in spring of 2009, my writing took an unexpected turn. Perhaps this incident explains the crux of my writing: the mundane in life meets the unexpected truth.
I know that I had nothing to do with Richard's death, but as his friend, I admit I felt an unreasonable sense of guilt when he died, which is probably the cause of my delayed mourning process.
On my way home from work one night, I had what some people call an after-death communication experience. Fortunately, I wasn't behind the wheel, but just riding in an elevator when I received news from Richard. I knew beyond any whisper of doubt that Richard was in the presence of the love of God. He didn't speak in words, but he showed me what it was like. Although I had sunk into indifference to God since Richard's death, in an instant I knew that I could not survive without that love, and that I was being asked to choose to act for God's love--and to stop resisting it. Because I knew I had been forgiven, I chose to accept love.
This is a moment that many therapists who work with trauma survivors work to achieve in therapy. In fact, many war veterans have benefited from re-connecting with enemies they have killed in battle. When they know they are forgiven and that their former enemy is now looking on in love, many trauma survivors have felt wholeness, completeness--and true peace in the presence of a loving God. That moment becomes a turning point in their lives.
Now that I knew I was forgiven, instantly I began to sort and organize the experiences of my life differently. I saw that beyond the chaos and the pain, God had been writing a story of a richer beauty than I would have ever imagined. Since I'd never had closure with Richard during his life, this is the story I began to write for him in Singing from Silence.
In this second phase, I wrote the book to Richard, and for him. After completing the original manuscript, the turning point I had with Richard was still resounding in my life on a daily basis. I questioned whether I had the right to keep something that had affected me so profoundly private, or whether Richard would rather have me share it.
When I became convinced that Richard would want me to share our story, I continued writing and re-writing until I felt Singing from Silence was ready for publication. (hide spoiler)]
I was undergoing a traumatic divorce when Richard died. At the time of his sudden death, Richard and I had not had a chance to say goodbye, or to resolve our differences about the nature of our relationship. Thinking about him became very painful for me after his death. The minimal demands of functioning in my life: raising my children, working, and caring for my elderly parents required me to shut down my memories of him.
Up until eleven years after his death, I succeeded in thinking about Richard very rarely.
In 2008, after both my parents had died, I finally began to mourn Richard and deal with my grief for him in my own way. As I was recovering from a surgery, someone gave me a copy of Musicophila by Oliver Sacks to read. The book described the effects of music on the memory and the mind.
Of course, Richard didn't need Oliver Sacks to remind him that music is a trigger to memory. A prodigy with the pronounced musicality that was his hallmark would have been well aware of all the effects his music had on his audience.
The more I read about the effects of music, the more I knew I wanted to hear Richard's music again. I also knew I would be torn to pieces when I listened his early songs. We had been very close during Richard's pre-Nashville days. The lyrics of several of his early songs, and even some of his more recent works contained references to our conversations.
As I began to listen, the circumstances surrounding our lives and our friendship flooded back. In order to deal with the memories, I began to write them down for my own benefit, simply to clear them from my mind. My life in general was something I had no impulse to write about. To me, it had meant nothing but chaos and pain. This first phase of the work that became Singing from Silence was written for me alone.
I had documented a series of anecdotes recalled from listening to his songs when in spring of 2009, my writing took an unexpected turn. Perhaps this incident explains the crux of my writing: the mundane in life meets the unexpected truth.
I know that I had nothing to do with Richard's death, but as his friend, I admit I felt an unreasonable sense of guilt when he died, which is probably the cause of my delayed mourning process.
On my way home from work one night, I had what some people call an after-death communication experience. Fortunately, I wasn't behind the wheel, but just riding in an elevator when I received news from Richard. I knew beyond any whisper of doubt that Richard was in the presence of the love of God. He didn't speak in words, but he showed me what it was like. Although I had sunk into indifference to God since Richard's death, in an instant I knew that I could not survive without that love, and that I was being asked to choose to act for God's love--and to stop resisting it. Because I knew I had been forgiven, I chose to accept love.
This is a moment that many therapists who work with trauma survivors work to achieve in therapy. In fact, many war veterans have benefited from re-connecting with enemies they have killed in battle. When they know they are forgiven and that their former enemy is now looking on in love, many trauma survivors have felt wholeness, completeness--and true peace in the presence of a loving God. That moment becomes a turning point in their lives.
Now that I knew I was forgiven, instantly I began to sort and organize the experiences of my life differently. I saw that beyond the chaos and the pain, God had been writing a story of a richer beauty than I would have ever imagined. Since I'd never had closure with Richard during his life, this is the story I began to write for him in Singing from Silence.
In this second phase, I wrote the book to Richard, and for him. After completing the original manuscript, the turning point I had with Richard was still resounding in my life on a daily basis. I questioned whether I had the right to keep something that had affected me so profoundly private, or whether Richard would rather have me share it.
When I became convinced that Richard would want me to share our story, I continued writing and re-writing until I felt Singing from Silence was ready for publication. (hide spoiler)]
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