The staff in the NICU was crowded around his bed. As I sang for another baby, whose doctor suggested I play for him as a preparation for the surgery he was facing later that morning, I was aware of the action around the baby in the corner, who was born weighing 650 grams.
He wasn't just tiny, he was so different. Born so small, and so early, he seemed to be made of a different substance than other humans, almost looking like wax. I felt awe and fear as I approached him. The responsiblity to provide sonic care to such a small, fragile creature was daunting. I played the gentlest song I could find within me, gently plucking at the strings of my ukulele, and singing softly.
All I had was a healing intention, and the inner song of my soul to invite him to inhabit his body, grow, be present in our world, and to live. We ususally think of awe as a response to something huge, larger than life, bigger than us. In this case, awe was inspired by the very smallness of this creature, his unformed features, and the lifeforce holding him to his body, to his life.
The awe changed my song, but I needn't have feared. Within minutes of starting to play, his doctor looked at the monitor and exclaimed, "Wonderful! You've raised his oxygen levels!"
Prayers for this little life to take hold.
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