I continue to be profoundly grateful for the role that music plays in my life. As a singer-songwriter, composing and more importantly singing and sharing my songs gave me a voice, a form of expression I didn’t have early in my life. Songwriting gave me permission to access and express a much fuller range of emotions than any other medium available to me. I had long been a writer of stories as well as personal journaling; but I discovered and stepped more into my power when I began to play and sing my truth than I had experienced from simply recording my thoughts and feelings. I’m not sure if it’s the physicality of singing the words, of vocalizing the feelings behind them that gives it this power, and I’ve long since stopped wondering about it. There is a distinct power to it, a coursing of energy through my body as I sing, and when I sing before an audience–even if it’s only a single individual–there is an exchange of energy between me and them that is palpable, at least to me.
So it no longer surprises me when I am listening to a particular song or piece of music that something absolutely breaks open in me and emotions spill out that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in. This morning as I was going about my usual Sunday routine, I thought I would listen to music as I prepared my breakfast. I thought I might listen to some gospel music, as that’s what I was hearing in my head, but hadn’t prepared any good playlists that had any favorite gospel tunes in one place. So I ended up selecting a playlist that was titled, “Assorted.” When the second song came on (Tears in Heaven, by Eric Clapton), the power of the music connected to a place in my heart where I’d been holding a lot of emotion, and I burst into tears, finally releasing it.
A combination of grief, sadness, and kindred feelings merged and fused and swirled through me as I sang the words through my tears and broken voice. And I was grateful, oh so grateful, for having unlocked the places where I’d been holding them hostage.
Music has that kind of power for me. My life has a soundtrack, a progression of notes and chords and melodies that play through each scene, that underscore each experience. I could list a Billboard top 100 of songs that play through the various corners of my life at any different time, from the instrumental (and probably little known) Amy’s Tears, by Al Petteway to the internationally well-known favorite, “Fire and Rain,” by James Taylor, music floats in and out of my day, every day, connecting me to the divine that exist within and outside of me.
I have listened to “Fire and Rain” hundreds of times (at least) over my lifetime, but in spite of the repeated listening I am still struck by the emotions and the story behind the well-known words to the song. I can remember sitting in my car in the parking lot at work many years ago as the song came on as I was pulling into my space. Something about the words, “I always thought that I’d see you again,” struck my heart like a physical blow, and I put my head on my arms across the steering wheel and wept. You see, that line, which I’d heard and sung many times before, suddenly reconnected me with my mother’s death. On the day of her funeral I had not gone to look at her before the service began in part because I knew I was going to sing during the service and I wanted to keep it together enough to perform the song. I had mistakenly thought I would see her again to say goodbye before the actual burial. But as it turns out I had missed my last chance. I always thought that I’d see you, one more time again…
I confess that much of the music in my life has been played in minor chords, sometimes sad and a bit melancholy. At one point when my mother was listening to me play some of my songs she remarked to me, “I love your songs, but some of them are so morose, do you have any happy songs?” I retorted that I preferred the term “melancholy,” and that when I found something happy to write about I would definitely have more happy songs. My brother similarly remarked at my tendency toward sad songs. “Perhaps I’ll buy a banjo,” I told him, “it’s harder to write sad songs on a banjo.” Some years later I actually did buy a banjo, but I still haven’t learned how to play it.
I am so grateful to have music in my life and to have the physical ability to be able to experience it. For some people it’s the visual arts, for others it might be the beauty of the natural world, and still others might find their power in some other medium. I am not sure if anything is more powerful for me than music (though connecting with nature is also restorative.) So very grateful and feeling the music in my bones, in my spirit, in my soul today. If you have a few moments, find a time to put on a song or a CD or a record or maybe even pick up or sit down at your own instrument and let your soul connect to the music, the rhythms of your heart. Let it bubble up, rise up. And if you can’t hear it, feel it, the vibration, the buzz, the hum of it, and be grateful.
