From my perch overlooking North Carolina’s Eno River, the birds’ singing reminds me that I’ve barely sung a note myself in months. During the pandemic, some researchers have declared singing riskier than talking. When vocalists let loose full-throated phrases, they propel droplets and aerosol particles into the room — all potentially laden with coronavirus.

My singing group, together for two decades, didn’t need much convincing to go on hiatus. The virus had already sent people we loved to the emergency room. But we never dreamed that come the season of Christmas carols and holiday concerts, our silent season would continue.

Singing with others is just one of the pandemic’s innumerable incidental losses. Yet, like millions who love singing, I feel the absence physically, as I would if I missed a meal or went weeks without exercise.

Once a week, our group gathered in living rooms, mapping out harmonies, trading leads, planning concerts and recordings. It offered a reliable release. We sang at festivals and bars, birthday parties, fundraisers, weddings and funerals. And then in March, the singing stopped.

Overnight, the pandemic transformed group singing into a life-threatening activity, like hang gliding or rock climbing. First a Mount Vernon, Washington, choir practice became a superspreader event where more than 50 attendees contracted COVID-19 and two died. Other outbreaks followed choir rehearsals in Germany, Britain and the Netherlands. Several countries banned choral singing.

Singing, the alchemy by which breath becomes music, is a physical pleasure. When people sing, their bodies become instruments, like bells, vibrating as breath rises from the diaphragm, through the lungs and larynx, to emerge as music. To me, there’s no purer expression of joy than giving over my mind, heart and breath to song. With one exception, singing with others.

For something so profoundly human, singing retains a degree of mystery. The music making happens largely out of sight, inside the body, as subtle internal movements shape a column of breath.

No one can truly show you how to sing. Piano teachers can demonstrate where to place your fingers on the keyboard. Voice teachers describe posture, breathing technique and vocal exercises. But mainly, they conjure forth music using imagery. Envision sound spilling from the top of your head, a teacher may say.

Imagine the song pouring out of you in a constant stream, like water, a singing teacher once told me. When one singer joins others, that river widens exponentially. And when voices combine and a shimmering chord rises from the group, each singer feels the lift, like a swelling wave.

Like millions of others, I’m addicted to soaring harmonies. Before the pandemic, some 54 million Americans took part in group singing. That’s 1 in 6 of us.

The pandemic has caused searing grief and many quieter losses. Of course, I am lucky to be healthy. I dearly miss my family and friends. And I sorely miss making music with other singers, something I never imagined could be so fragile.

The advent of a vaccine brings hope that we can soon reclaim our old lives. Soon, but not yet.

Holiday caroling will have to wait.

Alison Jones writes and sings in Hillsborough, N.C.