A few years ago, before my first pregnancy, I came across an article by Alan Cohen, author of “The Dragon Doesn’t Live Here Anymore.” In “They’re Singing Your Song,” he writes about how “a certain African tribe” uses song in a miraculous way—to remind us who we really are.

As his story goes, the women in this tribe go out into the wilderness when they find out they are pregnant, praying and meditating until they channel that child’s unique song—the one that will ultimately express his or her purpose and path. The song that will be not only soundtrack but theme song.

After finding the song, the mother returns to the village and teaches it to the rest of the community, and in this way they are introduced to the new being.

This song also creates a way for the community to engage with that child for the rest of his or her life. They sing that person their song at pivotal milestones: birth, the beginning of education, the initiation into adulthood, marriage and at the death bed. 

I was drawn to the story immediately, partly from personal experience. I know that the first thing my mother did when they laid me on her belly was to sing to me, and for my whole life, I have felt marked by that song. Though she didn’t go out into the wilderness to find it, she did sing it to me almost daily for many years, even still, wrapping me in unconditional love: “How I love my pretty baby, sweet and cuddly pretty baby, how I love my pretty baby, honest to goodness I do.”

But Cohen’s story takes the theme song notion a step farther. He writes, “In the African tribe there is one other occasion upon which the villagers sing to the child. If at any time during his or her life, the person commits a crime or aberrant social act, the individual is called to the center of the village and the people in the community form a circle around them. Then they sing their song to them. The tribe recognizes that the correction for antisocial behavior is not punishment; it is love and the remembrance of identity. When you recognize your own song, you have no desire or need to do anything that would hurt another.”

Every time I try to share this part of the story with other people, it makes me cry. Every time. I think it’s because there is so much resonance in what he relates. As he says, “There is something inside each of us that knows we have a song, and we wish those we love would recognize it and support us to sing it. … How we all long to be loved, acknowledged, and accepted for who we are!”

Though I doubt the veracity of the story as “Real”, suspicious, I suppose, because the tribe is unnamed and I have been unable to research my way into any such story, it is a really good story. It is true in that it resonates. And so, before my son was born, I went on a long walk to find his song. It took a few walks before I settled on the final lyric, and after that I sang it to him in utero for the few months remaining.

In you swells the breath of the universe.

You have a body made of love.

In you dwells the spirits of your ancestors.

In your life you’ll always have enough.  

Immediately after my son was born, I sang the song to him, just as I knew my mother had done for me. I also taught the song to several women friends who sang it to him shortly after his birth. And I continued to sing it to him every night until he was old enough to talk. And now he wants “stories, Mom, not songs.” At least I know that the song is in there, working its blessing, shaping his synapses.

And so it is that I was not in the least deterred from going out and “finding” a song for the little girl who’s been in my belly for 37 weeks. Never mind that the walk was hot and nearly put me into labor.

There are places you will go that we will never go, 

there are lessons you will learnyou can teach us.  

There are mountains you will climb and rivers you will find

and roads that you will takewhere you will lead us.  

And everywhere you go you will always know

you’re surrounded by love and wonder.  

And everywhere you are you will always find

a place where beauty breathes 

inside of you, outside of you

inside, outside.  

How to “Find” Your Child’s Song 

I suppose I am at an advantage for “finding” a song. I’m a poet and singer, and though I seldom write songs, it’s not much of a stretch for me, either. So putting on my creative writing instructor hat, here are some ideas for you to create a song for your child.

 1)      Give yourself permission to create something imperfect. You’re not trying to win an award here, you just want to do something personal. Whatever you come up with will be right.

2)      Go for a walk somewhere private. Not because the tribal women do it, but because walking creates a natural rhythm for you to follow. It also loosens the body, which loosens the mind.

3)      As you walk, envision the child. Hold your belly if it helps you connect.

4)      Look around you. Is there something you see, the sky, a tree, the road, a stream … anything around you that inspires you?

5)      Think about what words you wish someone had said to you all your life.

6)      Think about what you most wish for your child.

7)      Rhyme is irrelevant for this endeavor. Choose the words you care about for their own sake, not for their sound.

8)      If a tune comes, let it. If not, borrow a riff from a song you like and try to fit your words to it. Alter the tune when necessary.

9)      If someone else has told you that you are not a “singer,” shame on them. Forgive them their ignorance. Remind yourself that your child is not listening for perfect pitch, only for the pleasure of hearing your voice.

10)  Repeat your song line by line as you create it. Allow it to shift as you walk. Write it down after you get home or back to your car. You may want to record it, too, to remember the tune.  

And While You’re At It, Why Not Come Up With Your Own Song, Too

Whether or not we have a song, we know when we are “in tune” with ourselves, our families, our communities and our environment. And I like the notion that the singing of a song can actually bring us back in tune … at least give us a soundtrack for getting back on track. If your mother didn’t give you a song (or even if she did), choose one for yourself.

Come up with a lyric—maybe a song from the radio— that suits who you believe you are and then play it when you need to make important decisions. Or when you are scared. Or when you know you’ve done something “out of key” and need a little reminder of who you are.

Or better yet, follow the directions above to come up with a short mantra-like song and teach it to a friend or partner and have them sing or say it to you.

Sometimes we’d rather not hear our soundtrack. Sometimes the singer might be more annoying than helpful. I know that there are many times as an adult I have rolled my eyes at my mom when she sings me my song. She’s being sentimental and I feel practical.

My son is already on that track. Just the other day in the car I tried to slip in his song as he was falling asleep.  “Mom,” he said, with a bleary voice, “Please stop singing.”

At least for now I can delight in the fact he says, “Please,” music to any mother’s ears.