Oscailte
The Beat on the Street terrified me. It was a music event, in the 90s, by the River Lee in my hometown, Cork. Once I heard of the stabbings it became a monster, lurking by the banks just over the hill. I imagined all the girls, in full summer bloom, and it pinched my heart to miss them. But I’ve never been much of a gambler. The risk of being cut severed the lure of glinting eyes and lovely bums. Each summer, the beast would roar for a few days, pound the air, then take off leaving its mark. Within a certain proximity it was palpable. The beat would invade my chest. I dared not get close enough to feel it, for fear it felt me too. To some of the teenagers it was irresistible. To me it was a ravenous bass siren - it wanted something I wasn’t willing to risk losing.
Approaching the city this morning, bringing my partner to work, the beat on the street was palpable again. I was close enough, by the port, to feel it. No monsters were in town, that event has since long gone. This pulse was pure of heart. The dissonance of the day hadn’t yet begun. Thousands of coffees were no doubt being drunk around new Cork City. They just hadn’t kicked in. It was still, fine, and soft, and my own brew was setting in. The fishermen had already started. There were enough wooly hats to know the chill is almost here. Going over the bridge I could see, down river, the neighbour bridge admiring its own jostle in the mirror Lee. A few passers by looked in step — they had a sway. It was too early to be late so there was very little rush about. The morning sun was peeking over the factories up river. It was high enough to gift some colour. The morning hue was made of ambers and violets. It was the subtlest of concerts. I was glad to feel it, glad to let it in, glad for it to feel me too. After the cargo drop I took the rhythm with me and reminisced about the mornings I swayed to work myself. Almost a year ago to the day I packed up my city clinic, and unpacked it in the hills I was now heading towards. I remembered what I missed about working in the city — the morning songs.
If not for the recent ’journey’ I went on I wouldn’t be using ‘song’ to describe a morning city ambiance (I also wouldn’t be using the word journey, but I get it now). I wouldn’t be aware that the resonance of city life is heartfelt, and I certainly wouldn’t be listening as such. How I receive the world is forever changed, just because I am more aware of reception itself. On the first day of this ‘journey’ to revive my voice relationship, in connection to the Irish language, I wept. I chanted for the first time in my life with a group of mostly strangers. Full of apprehension and ambition my wretched throat grasped and gave as I halted and screeched noise into the collective audio. With each mantra I sweat more and after the arduous thirty minutes, we were to sit still, eyes closed.
Immediately, I vividly recalled a distant memory from the times of The Beat on the Street, when I punched my best friend in the face. A tear spilled over my lower lid while my lip began to tremble. I hoped everybody was abiding to the eyes closed cue but dared not check. I just kept wiping. I could only think of apologising to my life long buddy, and had no idea I’d harboured the guilt. Soon, that morning, we were to meet a human like no other I’d ever encountered. Thankfully we had time to recompose, but evidently it wasn’t enough for me.
Still raw from the chant and the memory it unearthed, I wasn’t prepared for the presence of Nóirín Ní Rían, our guest teacher for the day — a woman I’d never heard of, and a woman I’ll never forget. From the corridor, before entering the room, she began singing in Irish what I later learned was The Resurrection (An tAiséirí). Her first vocal pierced my chest. I was shaking, tears streaming, already vulnerable from the morning. Overwhelmed by the sheer force of her voice, I thought, ‘What have I done coming here?’ There was no way I’d hold this degree of emotional intensity together. This time, my only hope of not being witnessed was the low lighting, and awe. Everyone was spellbound, gazing to the origin of this sound. She entered drawing the air through her clutch - a handheld accordion. The room pulsated while her voice continued to enchant. When she stopped, the silence was warm and weighted, it was hers, and I was calm.
She introduced herself; a distinguished Irish singer, theologian, and musicologist whose deep connection to music began before she could speak—she sang first. Her career, spanning from childhood on, was rooted in traditional Irish and spiritual music. 16 of her later years were immersed in a Benedictine monastery collaborating with monks in their renowned Gregorian chant performances. What struck me, particularly after feeling her voice, was her exploration of the metaphysical aspects of sound in her doctoral work, where she coined the term Theosony, meaning the theology of listening. She introduced us to a concept I didn’t know I knew—ausculta. A Latin word meaning to listen, ausculta goes beyond hearing to listening deeply with the heart or soul. It is to listen with all of oneself, to be fully present, open, and receptive.
Sound and resonance had been intriguing me for some time prior to what Nóirín called our pilgrimage. In my research, I stumbled upon how resonance affects the myofascial system, the connective tissue interwoven throughout the body. I learned that bodily tone, whether tense or loose, is more responsive to vibration than to chemical signals. Nasal breathing, by increasing nitric oxide production, enhances circulation and promotes relaxation in fascial tissues. Vibration engages a different interplay, activating the fascia's sensory network. This system, rich with interoceptors, communicates internal states and responds to external stimuli like sound and resonance. Resonance doesn’t just influence muscle tone or tension; it reverberates through the body, shaping emotional responses and overall well-being. In other words, listening with all of oneself is more than a concept—it’s, at least, a physical truth, a sense that can be honed like touch or sight.
It’s obvious to me now why the ancient practice of chant has accompanied holy people throughout time,
not just as ritual, but as a way to directly affect state. From a purely physical perspective the practice allows for self-tuning. Like turning the guitar peg while strumming, harmonising bodily tone requires a balanced tension. Forced breath sounding creates tension whereas giving sound to breath releases it. By gently generating vibration with a consonant, the sound of your presence in that moment can depart on the vowel - the breath of the word. Vam, Lam, Ram, Yum, Ham, Ohm, each begin their pitch in a different bodily locale to the other. The subtle vibration is to be felt in the relative area before releasing the sound. For instance the Rrrr of Ram should vibrate in the diaphragm, dissipate on its release, returning a soothing mmm before the expansive inhale for another. This interplay of resonance, release, and reception goes beyond the act of making sound; it becomes a medium for profound emotional and physiological shifts. During the group chant, I found myself releasing guilt I hadn’t even realised I was carrying. The tuning allowed an emotional memory to rise to the surface, one that I wasn’t looking for, nor knew I had. It was a profound psychophysiological event, unfolding in the early hours, before the day’s first meal. I see now how nuns and monks of all creeds, across the world, have long harmonised their spiritual paths through such a practice.
This morning, in the Quay of Cork, I was settled. The beat on the street was angelic. Compared to the demonic Beat On The Street of my youth, It had the makings of a song. It’s been said that for a song to be a song it requires three things; rhythm, harmony, and sentiment. Perhaps I shared all three with new Cork City today, before the noise came to town. Angels, and demons, ride the air waves, and unbeknown to many they’re having an effect. We are strummed the right and wrong way by our sound environment, an environment that from conception we are in concert with. It contorts us and we contort it, and so, we can unravel.
The sound of ausculta is strikingly similar to the Irish word oscailte—to open, be broadminded, forthright, and clear. Their breath and vibration align, forming a chant alike in tone and meaning. Both words invite openness, a readiness to receive. Perhaps the ancient Latins and Gaels alike shared this awareness—an embodied understanding of resonance and its power to commune and transform.
Sound touches from a distance. A song moves, massages, and messages. We’re the instruments of an everyday orchestra, and some are in tune. They have an honest tone. As we’d say in Cork, they’re sound!
