Humans seem to be programmed to have a deep need to hear the voice of someone we love, even if we don’t consciously know that.
A voice can be healing, not just in a symbolic ways, but a literal way, too. At Northwestern University, psychologist Theresa Pape experimented with patients in comas. She split coma patients into two groups which were similar in their degree of seriousness. Each person is the test group had the voice of someone he or she loved played repeatedly in his or her hospital room. The control group received only routine treatment.
Pape found that the patients who heard the voice of a loved one came out of the coma more quickly than the very similar patients in the other group. Something about the voice of love helped bring them back to conscious life.
I’m thinking about this tonight because of a recording I stumbled upon. There was nothing momentous about what she said. She wasn’t even talking about love or the sort of thing we like to remember about such relationships.
But her voice reached across time and space and pierced my heart.
It wasn’t her specific words. It wasn’t the content. It was just the sound of her voice. And I played it again. Then again. And again.
This sent me on a search for other odd snippets that might have her voice. I found several. Some were recent. Some were from before I even knew her. And even though she isn’t in my life anymore, I couldn’t tear myself away from listening to her voice over and over.
I’ve fallen in love before without seeing a woman in person, but it’s always a voice that confirms what my heart already knew. When I hear a woman’s voice, I seem to know far more about her than I should.
I wish I still had recordings of my family from when I was young. We had cassette tape recorders very early, mostly because my father used them in his work. So we made a lot of tapes of ourselves. I can remember recording hours and hours of my thoughts when I was young. I’d give anything to hear what I sounded like and what I talked about.
I wouldn’t like everything about myself then and I would hear things in all of us that I think would sadden me now.
I wish I had recordings of my parents. I wish I had recordings of my grandparents. My grandfather used to tell me amazing stories of his life growing up as a poor country boy. I can still hear his voice in my memory, but I’ll never hear it in my ears. (He was a brilliant and educated man, though he never went past the sixth grade in a school.)
I wish now that I had recorded mundane slices of life with people all along the way. I think that would be useful today in helping me to faithfully reconstruct the truth of what really happened as I slowly became the person I am today.
You know these movies — mostly old science fiction films — in which someone’s voice opens a door or vault? I don’t know whether other people’s hearts function the same way, but a voice can activate something in my heart and open it.
For me, the right voice is a key that slides into the hardened lock of my heart and opens it right up, almost against my will. The lock on a front door can’t resent the key which matches the lock and opens the door. Neither can my heart resent the voice that opens the lock on my heart completely against my will.
There aren’t many voices which matter to us, but we ought to listen to them more often. We need to pay attention to them while we still can.
I need love and understanding and affection in my life, but I also have a serious need for a calm and soothing voice — not just some random person, not a radio or television personality, not whoever sits at the desk next to me.
No, I have the need for one voice. Whether I like it or not, whether it’s rational or not, whether it’s helpful or not. For better or worse, I still need her voice, at least for now.