I initially intended to write a tribute to the ukulele—an appreciation for that delightful, affordable, and cheerful instrument. Anyone can pick one up and strum away, and having one nearby has become one of my greatest joys.
My child often brings the ukulele on car rides, playing along with Stromae or my Joni Mitchell playlist. My partner strums it to create spontaneous tunes about our living room and the clutter on our coffee table. During dinner gatherings, it’s common for someone to start playing that beloved ukulele rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole, filling me with warmth and happiness. My message was going to be simple: You should get a ukulele—and I still stand by that. You should absolutely get one.
However, everything changed when I lost my oldest friend, my confidante for 43 years. In the wake of her passing, I find myself needing to express something deeper—something that resonates more profoundly. Without a doubt, music has become my sanctuary.
After her death, following the eulogy I delivered and my return from New York, friends came to our home. I call them “The Crew.” They arrived with food and love, surrounding us in our grief. We shared just the right amount of wine and an excessive amount of a peculiar Polish honey liqueur that carried an odd scent, and I found myself both laughing and crying, recounting my friend’s final moments. We even played a round of Boggle.
But soon enough, the familiar scene unfolded: my child took a seat at the piano, others picked up various instruments, and before long, we were all singing together. While there is a significant amount of talent in this group, many of us are simply enthusiastic singers who enjoy merging our voices in shared joy and sorrow. Ultimately, it’s about the melody and the harmony.
We harmonized to Joni Mitchell’s “River” and The Beatles’ “Let It Be.” We sang “Songbird” by Fleetwood Mac and “Forever Young” by Alphaville, along with all the beautiful, heart-wrenching verses of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” We had some lyrics printed out for different songs, and the teenagers were busy looking up others on their phones, as is their way. It felt like a slice of heaven on earth.
We often gather to sing, typically for joy rather than comfort, and sometimes we plan ahead. We’ve hosted hootenannies where musicians bring guitars, banjos, drums, and even the glockenspiel from our town’s quirky library. Yes, ukuleles are always included. Here are some of our favorite songs to play together:
- “I’ll Fly Away” by Alison Krauss
- “Kick Drum Heart” by Avett Brothers
- “When My Time Comes” by Dawes
- “Pecan Pie” by Wilco
- “Kids” by MGMT
- “Goddamn Lonely Love” by Drive-By Truckers
- “Ho Hey” by The Lumineers
- “Shady Grove” (traditional)
- “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
- “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” (Guns N’ Roses version)
Not fond of my list? Feel free to curate your own collection of favorites! Sometimes, each family sends out a single song a few weeks in advance so that musicians can learn their parts and non-musicians like me can simply enjoy the music. It could be The Beatles’ “I Will” or Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep.” Occasionally, a teenager may bring a trumpet or a cello to the mix. Regardless, it’s always exactly what I need. I promise you’ll find it fulfilling too. Gather your friends and their kids, print out some song lyrics, and create music together. If someone can play an instrument—even if it’s just a spirited tambourine or a middle-school oboe—fantastic! If not, it’s still perfect. Raise your voices in song.
During my friend’s last days in hospice care, death was not the serene flower I once imagined but rather an intimidating struggle she fought against. Yet, a compassionate young music therapist arrived with her guitar, playing songs like The Beatles’ “Across the Universe,” Iron and Wine’s “Such Great Heights,” and the Avett Brothers’ “I and Love and You.” In that moment, my friend found peace and smiled. Days later, at the service, a cantor sang “You Must Believe in Spring” with such clarity that it felt almost real.
While music may lack the comforting promises of organized religion—such as an afterlife or a clear purpose—it offers something profound. It embodies the essence of life itself, a connection that transcends sorrow and joy. Leonard Cohen captures it perfectly: “And even though it all went wrong / I’ll stand before the Lord of Song / With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah.” Hallelujah.
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In summary, music has become my refuge in the wake of loss, bringing people together to create beauty and find solace in shared melodies. Whether through spontaneous gatherings or planned hootenannies, the power of song unites us, allowing us to express emotions that words alone cannot convey.