Walked in the corner of the room A junk yard fool with eyes of gloom I asked him time againTake me in and dry the rain Take me in and dry the rain Take me in and dry the rain Take me in and dry the rain The rain the rain the rain now If there's something inside that you wanna say Say it out loud it'll be okay I will be your light I will be your light I will be your light I will be your light- The Beta Band, "Dry the Rain"
I like the idea and the practice of covers. You know, in terms of music. I like the same words and melodies with another voice - a reminder the song doesn't belong to anyone. Once it is written and escapes its author's tongue, it's shared. These are songs of brokenness. Of bitterness, joy and love. The truest stories are told not by the winner, but the loser - the outcast and downtrodden. The lowly. As J.W. Baz so confidently concludes, "we don't always have the best endings, but we do have the best stories." I guess I just like the idea of Hendrix listening to Dylan. Or Denver listening to McCartney. Or Buckley listening to Cohen. You see, for me, the importance lies not in the recording, but the proof that they spent hours in the evening and early morning absorbing the angst of another, because it resonated within a space deeper than their chest.
We're all struggling. We're all lost. We're all beating the sand with our fists and thrashing at the waves - a sandstorm set loose across the shore. We're all finding peace and chasing joy. Music may be the most personal of all human creations, but somehow it finds its way to be the most communal. And then the bitter meets the sweet amongst depths of sweeping harmony.
There's something to that - the shared love. The joined perspective of viewing a mountain from both sides simultaneously. I have gradually been realizing the depth of my love for storytelling. Film, music, photography, literature, fine art, poetry, stand-up comedy, dance - perspectives on perspective. Signs of life, exposed by time. A song without the passage of time is less than silence - it is the void in which a note once existed. A painting without time is not even an empty canvas. A soul without time precedes the dirt and dust left behind. The promise these absences point to are what we so frivolously refer to as "life."
You see, it's not so much about the destination as it is the journey.
As children, we chose "change over time" upon multiple choice tests and assumed it to be merely an equation...only to find it to be a skeleton supporting the expressive, lively flesh surrounding it. A formula beneath its organic form. An ever expansive universe of innumerable atoms. A masterful metaphor. The grandest of perspectives. How miraculous that we not only walk and gaze amongst such a wonderful spectacle, but that we cherish, sing, write, paint observe, work, play, laugh, cry, shout, scream, shiver, bask, eat, run, jump, swim, fall, fly, fuck, sleep, drink, talk, gaze, sit, sacrifice and love amongst it. How beautiful you are. How beautiful we are. May our eyes finally widen to see each other this way. To see life in the heartbreaking condition it thrives. Growing, changing, breathing with its seasons - filled with countless moments witnessed, recorded, forgotten and missed.
If only God would open my eyes to His gaze - if only for a moment - my calloused, hardened heart would finally beat for the first time as it explodes within my cavernous chest in an overdose of the very breath of God - not so that I may feel, but so that my heart, like a shot in the dark, may echo across these broken lands to find you, so that you might hear His love for you and how it has changed my life.
I wonder if the bright white light the dying claim to see in their escaping breaths is not unlike the numbing, tingling sensation of stepping in from the cold - a few moments pass and then, at last...you're home. And you realize what that is and has always been.
The moment I find myself finally at peace, I immediately begin analyzing it, ruining the very moment I'd been chasing. Not unlike the photographer who just can't lower the lens, even for a moment, to take in the life around them, I fail to experience that which I pursue. The moment is captured, but the memory is lost. Perhaps I fear what I chase, knowing it could never fully satisfy my craving. So I forever hide behind my lens and focus on composition rather than subject.
It's called a "changeover." The movie goes on and nobody in the audience has any idea.One year later...
Not since my last post (although you might convince me otherwise), but since the leap of faith. Last March I hopped a plane to Seattle without plan nor purpose. For those of you just tuning in, I have since chosen to live amongst these eclectic hills, for the time being, absorbing culture and nature to the best of my ability. More importantly, I'm learning to yearn for life rather than existence. The beautiful abandonment of letting go. The liberating release. Of all that I thought I wanted. Of who I thought I was. Of what is expected and planned. I'm not saying I've arrived, but that my eyes are continuing to widen as my heart continues to grow.
As I've often written, it's the changing of seasons that makes life so bitter and, at the same time, so very sweet. I love the seasons written into the earth's emotions and how they reflect the deeper currents of Truth. It is important, however, that we realize creation is not the Truth, but merely reflects it and guides our eyes in His direction. You see, life is far sweeter than what the seasons have to offer. A year is only mildly bitter and moderately sweet as the annual cycle promises another spring, summer, fall and winter. How much more would we cherish the falling spectacle of leaves if we knew it would never happen again - only to be witnessed, observed, experienced and cherished once? Or if the frosted landscape and shimmering, frozen trees would never again be formed by a trillion uniquely-ornamented, crystalized miracles? Or if the blossoming life of spring would never return after its withering death. Or if the warming, life-surging sun of summer would never again rise above the longing horizon?
How much more would we cherish these miracles if we realized them to always be once-in-a-lifetime? Such is the case of the seasons of life and the moments that pass amongst them. These instances are far more bitter, and therefore, sweeter, than the seasons' example. If only we could remember the length of a mile walked or the cold of a winter's day or the anticipation of a lover's touch. Then, maybe then, we could begin to glimpse the life God had intended for us. Embracing the bitter alongside the sweet. Watching an animal lose its life so that our family may be fed. How much more would our families appreciate God's providence if it was in the face of death? Might we then reconsider the frequency and ephemeral nature of our eating habits, and therefore, our daily lives? Life would be celebrated as it was cherished. And I think that may be the point.
Cause there's only four seasons and I'm looking for something more.- Joe Purdy, "Four Seasons"
Comments (4)
I love the Beta Band. Good stuff.
thank you, and i have to commend you on your work here. it's extremely thought-provoking and i enjoyed reading it very much.
I'm glad (:
I actually found the record a year or so ago at salvation army & never listened to it, then that song came on the radio & I remembered I have her record as well, it made my day. Just knowing I had the classic version, the way it was intended to be listened to.
This is gorgeously thoughtful. My heart was convicted and tugged as I read this, longing for life. My soul relates to you.
By the way, I think to "capture" a moment IS to truly live it, because any moment that we live to the fullest is a moment that will be forever burned into our memories, and not the kind of memories that become reduced to dull impressions over time, but the kind that we think about as our glory days. And also, the great thing to me about glory days is that we are never too old for them.