Reminiscence from my childhood: My parents blocked MTV and VH1 from our house. In uber-Mormon land (and in over-achieving parent land, I might add), all TV is bad--cable channels are the worst. My brother (Hi TJ!), being a budding techno-genius, figured out how to work it so we got those channels through the VCR. He and my sister watched grainy, bootleg videos every afternoon all the while exulting in the fact that they were doing something sneaky. I was the youngest and, ahem, a nark, so I told on them--a fact which no one in my family has EVER let go of. My parents called the cable company and they sent a guy who snipped the literal-under-the-ground cable and the sinful, albeit sometimes soulful, channels were gone. So we all started sneaky around so we could watch Comedy Central.
The point: I don't get music videos. Now that I'm an old, over-sensitive mommy I can't figure out why anyone, anywhere would want to watch music videos. They are dirty. They are random. And they inspire weirdo rappers/singer dudes to interrupt lovely young country starlets who are getting awards they may or may not deserve (which is entirely beside the point, Kanye!).
Anyway, I finally found a video I get. Sort of. Well, okay, I don't get it. But at least it's funny!! Happy Monday!
Showing posts with label songs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label songs. Show all posts
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
Mirthful Monday: "Scrubs--The Musical"
So I caught this episode of Scrubs as a rerun the other night and laughed until I cried. I hope it does the same for you :)
Here's my favorite number (my life as a mommy SO feels like this sometimes!):
For more fun, check out "Guy Love".
Happy Monday!
Here's my favorite number (my life as a mommy SO feels like this sometimes!):
For more fun, check out "Guy Love".
Happy Monday!
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Turning for Peace
I'm not sure why but sometimes churchy stuff seems to exaggerate my mood disorder more than help it. Maybe it's because Church stuff is all pre-scripted. Like, my Primary teachers and YW leaders (who all meant well; this is not a criticism of them) told me how I should feel about stuff, but my feelings didn't always match up with the expected feelings and that spiritual dissonance took root in me. I think I felt (feel?) guilty for not feeling what I'm supposed to feel.
This last fast Sunday was a little like that for me. Really, my feelings were all over the place. I was annoyed when we got to Church. As I took the bread and water, I was overwhelmed by Christ's sacrifice for me and my heart fell to pieces. Once testimonies started I was tired. The mood swings just went from there. I was substituting my oldest daughter's Primary class that day and by the end of sacrament meeting I was oished. There was no way I could sit through opening exercises and sharing time with a bunch of rowdy CTR 6's without snapping at someone. One of them started complaining the minute I sat down. I looked him straight in the eye and said, "I don't care. Let it go. Don't tell me about it because I don't care."
Probably not what a kid is looking for when he comes to Primary.
So I left for a little while. I turned and walked out of that room. I found a shady spot outside and pulled out my Ipod. When I turned it on I was happy that the first song was one that always brings me peace. I worried for a minute that it wasn't a Church song but since it calmed my heart I went with it. The song is from the movie Uncorked. (Which is my favorite movie, despite what the users at imdb think. It rocks. You should watch it.) Sometimes to find peace, we have to turn away from all our obligations for a little bit--even the spiritual ones. And that's okay because by turning away you're giving yourself the option to turn back and do better.
I thought I'd post the song here for you in case you were in need of a break too. The first version is the song with a nice wannabe arty photo montage. The second is the version from the film. Enjoy!
This last fast Sunday was a little like that for me. Really, my feelings were all over the place. I was annoyed when we got to Church. As I took the bread and water, I was overwhelmed by Christ's sacrifice for me and my heart fell to pieces. Once testimonies started I was tired. The mood swings just went from there. I was substituting my oldest daughter's Primary class that day and by the end of sacrament meeting I was oished. There was no way I could sit through opening exercises and sharing time with a bunch of rowdy CTR 6's without snapping at someone. One of them started complaining the minute I sat down. I looked him straight in the eye and said, "I don't care. Let it go. Don't tell me about it because I don't care."
Probably not what a kid is looking for when he comes to Primary.
So I left for a little while. I turned and walked out of that room. I found a shady spot outside and pulled out my Ipod. When I turned it on I was happy that the first song was one that always brings me peace. I worried for a minute that it wasn't a Church song but since it calmed my heart I went with it. The song is from the movie Uncorked. (Which is my favorite movie, despite what the users at imdb think. It rocks. You should watch it.) Sometimes to find peace, we have to turn away from all our obligations for a little bit--even the spiritual ones. And that's okay because by turning away you're giving yourself the option to turn back and do better.
I thought I'd post the song here for you in case you were in need of a break too. The first version is the song with a nice wannabe arty photo montage. The second is the version from the film. Enjoy!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Book Review: Hold on the Light Will Come
Hi friends!
One quick note: I updated my goodreads widget so check it out to see what I've been reading!
Now to business.
I recently read Michael McLean's book, Hold On, the Light Will Come, and I have to say that I was a little disappointed. I suppose it was because I had my hopes all up and that rarely leads to a good reading experience. You'd think I'd know better by now.
McLean and I go way back. Fifteen years in fact. I remember getting a tape of his for Christmas when I was eleven (I think it was the only tape I ever owned; I got cd's after that) and my dad was in the bishopric of a student ward. I was doing community theater by that point and was gone a lot. Anyway, I came home from play practice one Monday night to a house full of college students and my parents nowhere in sight. I mean, the place was packed. It was a Family Home Evening group and since we lived in Utah there were probably forty giddy co-eds kicking it in our house. They were in the kitchen, the living room, the backyard, everywhere. So I did what any tweenaged girl would do. I panicked. I locked myself in my bedroom (which I was sharing with my older sister) and turned on the tunes. Michael McLean's "You're Not Alone" came pouring out of the speakers on my little boombox and soothed me. I rewound it and listened to it over and over until my sister finally came in and asked me what the heck I was doing and didn't I want refreshments?
As an older teen I liked listening to his music and I would sometimes put lines up on my wall (I wallpapered my room in quotations from music, poetry, and books), but even then I knew they didn't make whole lot of sense. Emotionally they were satisfying but artistically they left something to be desired. (His song about anger, "If it's not love, simply let it go", is a perfect is example. Since when is anger like an innocent, injured bird? Only if that bird is an angry goose and you're the last picnicker and you're all out of bread crumbs.) Nevertheless, I still looked forward to our family's annual attendance of The Forgotten Carols concert at USU and even the cheesy hand holding and singing at the end.
I eventually got too sophisticated for Michael McLean and forgot him completely until my sister mentioned the fact that he was depressed. She said she'd read about it in one of his books and she liked what he had said. My heart thrilled a little. What? Another depressed Mormon? One who's open about? One who used his art to help fix it? Maybe, just maybe, Michael McLean had a few more thoughts worth hearing. So I read the book.
Here's what he said about depression:
And that was it. The rest of the book is just as cheesy and campy as his music. At first I took it personally that he glossed over all the struggles and I wondered if Deseret Book had pressured him keep the depression talk to a minimum. And maybe they did. Maybe I should just be happy that he owned up the fact that he's depressed and on antidepressants. Besides Marie Osmond, who also sings campy music (coincidentally? hmm. . .), McLean is one of the few Mormons who owns up to mood disorder struggles and needing help.
But I wanted more. I still want to know if he has suicidal thoughts or violent visions. Has he ever been so depressed he couldn't feel the Spirit? How does his wife live with it? How has it affected his children? How could he hear the music through the crazy? Really, I wanted to know if he was like me and if had any survival tips. This book didn't answer any of those questions.
It's funny to me, though, that I can't let Michael McLean go. I still have his autograph tucked away in one of my journals somewhere. Seriously. I actually waited in line at a book store so that he could sign a bright green sticky note for me.(My only thought at the time: "Man! He's old!") A lot of the time, when I'm really frustrated and overwhelmed random lyrics will come to me. "Which part is mine? And, God, which part is yours? Could you tell me one more time? I'm never quite sure?" is like a muzak-ghost some days. Or even, "like an awkward dancer on a crowded floor, I'll learn to dance once more, someday." And, of course, "You're not alone." My brain still pulls that out as a reminder sometimes.
Despite my general frustration with his music, there is one song of his that I have always loved. "Gentle" really meant a lot to me as a high schooler and I still think it has some merit. Here's my favorite part (for all the lyrics click here):
Life can hard, but we need not be
so hard on ourselves, if we will see…
Like the shepherd leads his flock with gentle commands.
With his gentle voice that only hearts understand.
One thing we can know for certain, He has borne the awful burdens
So we can be gentle with ourselves.
Still gets me. Every time. I guess I shouldn't write him off after all.
One quick note: I updated my goodreads widget so check it out to see what I've been reading!
Now to business.
I recently read Michael McLean's book, Hold On, the Light Will Come, and I have to say that I was a little disappointed. I suppose it was because I had my hopes all up and that rarely leads to a good reading experience. You'd think I'd know better by now.
McLean and I go way back. Fifteen years in fact. I remember getting a tape of his for Christmas when I was eleven (I think it was the only tape I ever owned; I got cd's after that) and my dad was in the bishopric of a student ward. I was doing community theater by that point and was gone a lot. Anyway, I came home from play practice one Monday night to a house full of college students and my parents nowhere in sight. I mean, the place was packed. It was a Family Home Evening group and since we lived in Utah there were probably forty giddy co-eds kicking it in our house. They were in the kitchen, the living room, the backyard, everywhere. So I did what any tweenaged girl would do. I panicked. I locked myself in my bedroom (which I was sharing with my older sister) and turned on the tunes. Michael McLean's "You're Not Alone" came pouring out of the speakers on my little boombox and soothed me. I rewound it and listened to it over and over until my sister finally came in and asked me what the heck I was doing and didn't I want refreshments?
As an older teen I liked listening to his music and I would sometimes put lines up on my wall (I wallpapered my room in quotations from music, poetry, and books), but even then I knew they didn't make whole lot of sense. Emotionally they were satisfying but artistically they left something to be desired. (His song about anger, "If it's not love, simply let it go", is a perfect is example. Since when is anger like an innocent, injured bird? Only if that bird is an angry goose and you're the last picnicker and you're all out of bread crumbs.) Nevertheless, I still looked forward to our family's annual attendance of The Forgotten Carols concert at USU and even the cheesy hand holding and singing at the end.
I eventually got too sophisticated for Michael McLean and forgot him completely until my sister mentioned the fact that he was depressed. She said she'd read about it in one of his books and she liked what he had said. My heart thrilled a little. What? Another depressed Mormon? One who's open about? One who used his art to help fix it? Maybe, just maybe, Michael McLean had a few more thoughts worth hearing. So I read the book.
Here's what he said about depression:
I know life's hard and things are tough . . . I know how dark it can feel . . . why do you think I'm waiting in line for antidepressants? But when i hear a story in a song, and someone overcomes something, or finds a way to hold on or learns how to let go or discovers something that alters the way they view their life, I want to celebrate it[. . .]I want to know that somewhere inside of me I'm capable of feeling hope" (p. 3).
And that was it. The rest of the book is just as cheesy and campy as his music. At first I took it personally that he glossed over all the struggles and I wondered if Deseret Book had pressured him keep the depression talk to a minimum. And maybe they did. Maybe I should just be happy that he owned up the fact that he's depressed and on antidepressants. Besides Marie Osmond, who also sings campy music (coincidentally? hmm. . .), McLean is one of the few Mormons who owns up to mood disorder struggles and needing help.
But I wanted more. I still want to know if he has suicidal thoughts or violent visions. Has he ever been so depressed he couldn't feel the Spirit? How does his wife live with it? How has it affected his children? How could he hear the music through the crazy? Really, I wanted to know if he was like me and if had any survival tips. This book didn't answer any of those questions.
It's funny to me, though, that I can't let Michael McLean go. I still have his autograph tucked away in one of my journals somewhere. Seriously. I actually waited in line at a book store so that he could sign a bright green sticky note for me.(My only thought at the time: "Man! He's old!") A lot of the time, when I'm really frustrated and overwhelmed random lyrics will come to me. "Which part is mine? And, God, which part is yours? Could you tell me one more time? I'm never quite sure?" is like a muzak-ghost some days. Or even, "like an awkward dancer on a crowded floor, I'll learn to dance once more, someday." And, of course, "You're not alone." My brain still pulls that out as a reminder sometimes.
Despite my general frustration with his music, there is one song of his that I have always loved. "Gentle" really meant a lot to me as a high schooler and I still think it has some merit. Here's my favorite part (for all the lyrics click here):
Life can hard, but we need not be
so hard on ourselves, if we will see…
Like the shepherd leads his flock with gentle commands.
With his gentle voice that only hearts understand.
One thing we can know for certain, He has borne the awful burdens
So we can be gentle with ourselves.
Still gets me. Every time. I guess I shouldn't write him off after all.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The But Not Unhappy Holiday Playlist
To be honest (and we're all about honesty here), there is a lot of holiday music that makes me nuts. I do not like "The Twelve Days of Christmas". If I have to hear "Feliz Navidad" one more time--whether it's the original or Los Lonely Boys--I think I'll scream. Oh, and don't get me started on "Grandma Got Ran Over By A Reindeer."
Bad Christmas songs are blog fodder for a lot of people (checkout Musical Fruitcake for some truly pitiful songs and be sure to check out the worst Christmas song EVER. According to their list it's only number 2, but really, it's the worst.)but, while that is entertaining, that's not what I'm going for here. No, what I'm aiming to provide is a playlist that brings a little quiet to your mind and a little sanity to the sounds around you. A playlist that doesn't exacerbate your mood swings. Here's my depressed (but not unhappy) Christmas playlist:
*"Where are You Christmas" sung by Faith Hill. Hated the movie it came from but loved the song. Seriously, where is the Christmas I remember? Why can't I find it? Okay, it might be a little melodramatic but it works for me. If you're a country music fan, the sweeping emotionality of her new song, "A Baby Changes Everything", will really work for you.
*"River" by Joni Mitchell. The version I have is the live version sung by the Indigo Girls and I love it. There are plenty of days I wish I had a river I could skate away on. And just hearing those chicks croon it out makes me feel a little bit better.
*"Winter Song" sung by Sarah Bareilles. That's right, that feisty chick who won't write you a love song is happy to write you a haunting winter ballad that asks the question we all want an answer to: Is love alive? In my mind that's what Christmas is all about. Is love alive in my heart? Is the Spirit of Christ working within me so that I can share that love with those around me?
*"December" by the Counting Crows. This is actually a Christmas song but it is about December (duh, Laura)which makes it tangentially related to Christmas. And it's moody. So, you know, that works.
*Sarah Mclachlan's album Wintersong seems pretty good. I've only heard a few snippets but I really, really like it. Oh and it's not jaunty or bouncy and there are no sleigh bells. The only problem: it's so soothing it might make you want to get back into bed and never get out again--and don't we have enough problems with that already? *wink*
Those are just a few of my favorite Christmas songs--besides the standards like "O Holy Night" and "I Wonder as I Wander". Hopefully these will help you de-stress a bit during the last week before Christmas. And then, maybe, just maybe, you'll be ready for another round of Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You".
What's on your playlist this year?
Oh, and for extra giggles (especially for you, TJ! All those nightmares you gave me from blasting this song in the middle night are forever gone!), here's a little Metallica Magic from the dude that brought you a truly awesome Star Wars/John Williams tribute:
Bad Christmas songs are blog fodder for a lot of people (checkout Musical Fruitcake for some truly pitiful songs and be sure to check out the worst Christmas song EVER. According to their list it's only number 2, but really, it's the worst.)but, while that is entertaining, that's not what I'm going for here. No, what I'm aiming to provide is a playlist that brings a little quiet to your mind and a little sanity to the sounds around you. A playlist that doesn't exacerbate your mood swings. Here's my depressed (but not unhappy) Christmas playlist:
*"Where are You Christmas" sung by Faith Hill. Hated the movie it came from but loved the song. Seriously, where is the Christmas I remember? Why can't I find it? Okay, it might be a little melodramatic but it works for me. If you're a country music fan, the sweeping emotionality of her new song, "A Baby Changes Everything", will really work for you.
*"River" by Joni Mitchell. The version I have is the live version sung by the Indigo Girls and I love it. There are plenty of days I wish I had a river I could skate away on. And just hearing those chicks croon it out makes me feel a little bit better.
*"Winter Song" sung by Sarah Bareilles. That's right, that feisty chick who won't write you a love song is happy to write you a haunting winter ballad that asks the question we all want an answer to: Is love alive? In my mind that's what Christmas is all about. Is love alive in my heart? Is the Spirit of Christ working within me so that I can share that love with those around me?
*"December" by the Counting Crows. This is actually a Christmas song but it is about December (duh, Laura)which makes it tangentially related to Christmas. And it's moody. So, you know, that works.
*Sarah Mclachlan's album Wintersong seems pretty good. I've only heard a few snippets but I really, really like it. Oh and it's not jaunty or bouncy and there are no sleigh bells. The only problem: it's so soothing it might make you want to get back into bed and never get out again--and don't we have enough problems with that already? *wink*
Those are just a few of my favorite Christmas songs--besides the standards like "O Holy Night" and "I Wonder as I Wander". Hopefully these will help you de-stress a bit during the last week before Christmas. And then, maybe, just maybe, you'll be ready for another round of Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You".
What's on your playlist this year?
Oh, and for extra giggles (especially for you, TJ! All those nightmares you gave me from blasting this song in the middle night are forever gone!), here's a little Metallica Magic from the dude that brought you a truly awesome Star Wars/John Williams tribute:
Thursday, July 31, 2008
My Aunt Died Yesterday.
It happened in the very early morning. My mother called during breakfast to tell me. The news took my breath away and replaced it with a weight I am slowly becoming used to carrying. I can't make it to the funeral and it's making me sad. I need to memorialize her some way and right now the ol' blog, ephemeral as it may be, seems like the only option.
Aunt Barbara was my dad's handicapped sister. She was the fifth of seven children and had Rubenstein-Taybi syndrome. Because of her handicap I was always of two minds about her. I was struggling against my fear of her otherness to find the strength of compassion so I could relate to her somehow. I wanted to see through her handicap, through the difficulties this life threw at her, and see her as God saw her. I wanted to see her as His child; as one of His miracles. There were a few times that I think I came close.
We visited Barbara on most major holidays. She lived in a group home in Ogden and we lived in Cache Valley so we would trek down there for Christmas and her birthday and sometimes on other days. The first thing my dad always did was take her and the other folks in the house over to the 7-11 for Slurpees. We would all walk together and after a few minutes their smiles and excitement would crowd out the awkwardness of their gaits and what I percieved as strangess about them.
For her birthday we always gave her the same things: dollar bills and 3 Musketeers bars. Those things never lost their enchantment for her. She opened them with giddy fingers and would hold them high above her head, crowing with excitement, before tucking them safely into her fannypack. In her happiness she was always wild to hug someone and as much as I was nervous about her body a hug from Barbara never failed to impart some of the magic that made her who she was.
Eventually Barbara was moved to a rest home in our town. She spent six days a week at the rest home and Saturdays at our house. It was the same routine each week. My dad would drive to the rest home and pick up her and her laundry. He was closest to her in age and always the best friend she had. Barbara knew she could count on him because she always had. I think doing her laundry was his way of saying that he would do anything in the world for her. While her clothes were swished around in the washer and warmed and fluffed in the dryer she would watch The Sound of Music and sing along at the top of her lungs. She knew all the words and never missed a beat. When Barbara was there music filled the house.
When I knew her, singing was the truest form of communication with Barbara. Talking and words seem to roll around her body but never make it inside. But music, well, music was already inside her and singing--especially the hymn "I am a Child of God"--tapped into her essence. It was the way over the hurdles of her disablities.
I took her for granted for a lot of years, like most of us do with most of our loved ones. It wasn't until I read my grandmother's journals, Barbara's mother's journals, that I saw her a person. Instead of her being something strange and peripheral I could see her as a daughter and sister, as someone full of love and in need of love. I thought of her often and wondered how I could reach out to her but never found any answers--until a few weeks ago.
When we were on vacation in Utah I went with my dad and mom to visit Barbara. They had just finished one of the church services they did at the rest home and Barbara was sitting near the piano as the minister cleaned up. She recognized my dad--she doesn't remember me but she never forgets him--and took his hand. My dad introduced our family to the minister and she reached down (Barbara has been in a wheelchair for quite a few years now. She broke her leg and then her hip and decided learning to walk again wasn't worth it.) and put her arms around Barbara. My mom leaned over to hug Barbara too. I wrapped my arms around myself and wondered about the feel of her skin. The minister talked about God's love and somehow or other Barbara's singing came up and before I realized what I was doing I blurted out, "Have you heard Barbara sing 'I am a Child of God'? It's her favorite song." Of course Barbara sang it beautifully for us. And we sang with her. When Barbara sings it's hard not to join in. As I listened to her words I felt the Spirit envelope our group and hold us together. As the chorus rose and fell I knew that Barbara was part of our eternal family and I was filled with gratitude. For a split second her spirit felt enormous to me. For what was the last and probably the first time, I reached out and took her hand, her skin cool against my sweaty palms.
I don't imagine it meant much to Barbara. She was surrounded by people who loved her. The nurses all knew Barbara--there was a sort of bemused smile they all got when we mentioned her name--and they took excellent care of her. She had a roommate named Bev who was eternally patient and kind to Barbara. There were doctors and therapists and volunteers who all spent their time and energy on her. I think Barbara enjoyed her life and didn't miss an errant neice.
The truth is I missed her. I missed singing songs. I missed eating candy bars. I missed all the things I could have learned from her. I missed all the love she would have given. I missed her. And now I miss her more.
When I asked my dad about Barbara's death he said, "It will also not surprise you to know that my faith in Christ’s grace leaves me comforted that she is now free of her many challenges, rejoining loved ones who have gone before, and preparing for a glorious resurrection to eternal life and joy . . .[but] the world feels a little older and colder to me now." That is how my sadness feels too.
Maybe it's my sense of drama but I wanted to sing at her funeral. It seemed like the only appropriate gesture I could make for her, like maybe singing that one time would help her voice stay in this world a little longer. But that's not going to happen. So (humor me here, grief makes people do sometimes silly and irrational things), maybe those of you who read this could sing. Not a lot, nothing weird or crazy, but just sing. Sing "I am a Child of God" with your kids at bedtime or if you don't usually sing the hymns in sacrament meeting sing one this week or maybe just on your own in the car or something. For me it was Barbara's music that made this world not so cold and if others sing--just a little--some of her warmth, the Spirit's warmth, will linger. Thanks. (And thanks for refraining from calling me a wierdo for asking!)
p.s. Here is another hymn, "Be Thou My Vision", that my dad identified with Barbara. This is a Christian pop arrangement but I like it anyway :)
Aunt Barbara was my dad's handicapped sister. She was the fifth of seven children and had Rubenstein-Taybi syndrome. Because of her handicap I was always of two minds about her. I was struggling against my fear of her otherness to find the strength of compassion so I could relate to her somehow. I wanted to see through her handicap, through the difficulties this life threw at her, and see her as God saw her. I wanted to see her as His child; as one of His miracles. There were a few times that I think I came close.
We visited Barbara on most major holidays. She lived in a group home in Ogden and we lived in Cache Valley so we would trek down there for Christmas and her birthday and sometimes on other days. The first thing my dad always did was take her and the other folks in the house over to the 7-11 for Slurpees. We would all walk together and after a few minutes their smiles and excitement would crowd out the awkwardness of their gaits and what I percieved as strangess about them.
For her birthday we always gave her the same things: dollar bills and 3 Musketeers bars. Those things never lost their enchantment for her. She opened them with giddy fingers and would hold them high above her head, crowing with excitement, before tucking them safely into her fannypack. In her happiness she was always wild to hug someone and as much as I was nervous about her body a hug from Barbara never failed to impart some of the magic that made her who she was.
Eventually Barbara was moved to a rest home in our town. She spent six days a week at the rest home and Saturdays at our house. It was the same routine each week. My dad would drive to the rest home and pick up her and her laundry. He was closest to her in age and always the best friend she had. Barbara knew she could count on him because she always had. I think doing her laundry was his way of saying that he would do anything in the world for her. While her clothes were swished around in the washer and warmed and fluffed in the dryer she would watch The Sound of Music and sing along at the top of her lungs. She knew all the words and never missed a beat. When Barbara was there music filled the house.
When I knew her, singing was the truest form of communication with Barbara. Talking and words seem to roll around her body but never make it inside. But music, well, music was already inside her and singing--especially the hymn "I am a Child of God"--tapped into her essence. It was the way over the hurdles of her disablities.
I took her for granted for a lot of years, like most of us do with most of our loved ones. It wasn't until I read my grandmother's journals, Barbara's mother's journals, that I saw her a person. Instead of her being something strange and peripheral I could see her as a daughter and sister, as someone full of love and in need of love. I thought of her often and wondered how I could reach out to her but never found any answers--until a few weeks ago.
When we were on vacation in Utah I went with my dad and mom to visit Barbara. They had just finished one of the church services they did at the rest home and Barbara was sitting near the piano as the minister cleaned up. She recognized my dad--she doesn't remember me but she never forgets him--and took his hand. My dad introduced our family to the minister and she reached down (Barbara has been in a wheelchair for quite a few years now. She broke her leg and then her hip and decided learning to walk again wasn't worth it.) and put her arms around Barbara. My mom leaned over to hug Barbara too. I wrapped my arms around myself and wondered about the feel of her skin. The minister talked about God's love and somehow or other Barbara's singing came up and before I realized what I was doing I blurted out, "Have you heard Barbara sing 'I am a Child of God'? It's her favorite song." Of course Barbara sang it beautifully for us. And we sang with her. When Barbara sings it's hard not to join in. As I listened to her words I felt the Spirit envelope our group and hold us together. As the chorus rose and fell I knew that Barbara was part of our eternal family and I was filled with gratitude. For a split second her spirit felt enormous to me. For what was the last and probably the first time, I reached out and took her hand, her skin cool against my sweaty palms.
I don't imagine it meant much to Barbara. She was surrounded by people who loved her. The nurses all knew Barbara--there was a sort of bemused smile they all got when we mentioned her name--and they took excellent care of her. She had a roommate named Bev who was eternally patient and kind to Barbara. There were doctors and therapists and volunteers who all spent their time and energy on her. I think Barbara enjoyed her life and didn't miss an errant neice.
The truth is I missed her. I missed singing songs. I missed eating candy bars. I missed all the things I could have learned from her. I missed all the love she would have given. I missed her. And now I miss her more.
When I asked my dad about Barbara's death he said, "It will also not surprise you to know that my faith in Christ’s grace leaves me comforted that she is now free of her many challenges, rejoining loved ones who have gone before, and preparing for a glorious resurrection to eternal life and joy . . .[but] the world feels a little older and colder to me now." That is how my sadness feels too.
Maybe it's my sense of drama but I wanted to sing at her funeral. It seemed like the only appropriate gesture I could make for her, like maybe singing that one time would help her voice stay in this world a little longer. But that's not going to happen. So (humor me here, grief makes people do sometimes silly and irrational things), maybe those of you who read this could sing. Not a lot, nothing weird or crazy, but just sing. Sing "I am a Child of God" with your kids at bedtime or if you don't usually sing the hymns in sacrament meeting sing one this week or maybe just on your own in the car or something. For me it was Barbara's music that made this world not so cold and if others sing--just a little--some of her warmth, the Spirit's warmth, will linger. Thanks. (And thanks for refraining from calling me a wierdo for asking!)
p.s. Here is another hymn, "Be Thou My Vision", that my dad identified with Barbara. This is a Christian pop arrangement but I like it anyway :)
Thursday, February 21, 2008
I Don't Go to Therapy to Find out if I'm a Freak
Something I really appreciate are songs that are about something other than falling in love. Not that falling in love is bad. It's great. It's just that there are so many other things in this world to think about. So why not set some of those things to music?
One day, in a fit of teenage rebellion, I stumbled on one of those rare not-about-love songs when I went to Hastings and bought a Lilith Fair cd. I found it on the used rack for a massive discount and just holding it made my palms sweat. I kept thinking of all the subversive material it might possibly contain. After all, there were some songs by the Indigo Girls and they were, well, you know, lesbians. I kept thinking of the day my brother brought home an Alanis Morisette cd and the way my parents reacted.
But, for the moment, I was a being a rebellious teenager so I bought it and furtively listened to it late at night in my room. A lot of the songs were too arty or too angst-y for my delightfully sheltered Mormon brain. However, there were some songs that really resonated with my inner rhythms--an awesome arrangement of "Eternal Flame" was one of them. (I'm too young to know the '80s version of it, so that cd was my first exposure to that fabulous teenage love song.)
Another of my favorites was a song by Dar Williams called "What do You Hear in These Sounds". Perhaps my liking of the song was a premonition because when I heard Williams' throaty and vulnerable voice croon the first line, "I don't go to therapy to find out if I'm a freak," I knew I had found a personal anthem.
So, since I think putting the actual song on here would be some sort of copyright infringement and I'm afraid of going to jail, I'm posting the lyrics for you all to enjoy. Well, and to be honest, I have no idea how to put a song on my blog. I just barely figured out how to put my picture on here. And my husband had to help with that. So, go to Itunes and look up Dar Williams "What do You Hear in these Sounds" so you know what it's supposed to sound like--it's on there I checked :)
WHAT DO YOU HEAR IN THESE SOUNDS?
I don't go to therapy to find out if I'm a freak
I go and I find the one and only answer every week
And it's just me and all the memories to follow
Down any course that fits within a fifty minute hour
And we fathom all the mysteries, explicit and inherent
When I hit a rut, she says to try the other parent
And she's so kind, I think she wants to tell me something,
But she knows that its much better if I get it for myself...
And she says ooh, aah, what do you hear in these sounds?
And, ooh, aah what do you hear in these sounds?
I say, "I hear a doubt, with the voice of true believing
And the promises to stay, and the footsteps that are leaving."
And she says "Oh." I say "What?" She says "Exactly."
I say, "What, you think I'm angry
Does that mean you think I'm angry?"
She says, "Look, you come here every week
With jigsaw pieces of your past.
It's all on little sound bites and voices out of photographs.
And that's all yours, that's the guide, that's the map.
So tell me, where does the arrow point to?
Who invented roses?"
And, ooh, aah what do you hear in these sounds?
And, ooh, aah what do you hear in these sounds?
And when I talk about therapy, I know what people think
That it only makes you selfish and in love with your shrink
But, oh, how I loved everybody else
When I finally got to talk so much about myself.
And when I wake up and ask myself what state I'm in
I say, "Well I'm lucky, cause I am like East Berlin."
I had this wall and what I knew of the free world
Was that I could see their fireworks
And I could hear their radio.
And I thought that if we met, I would only start confessing,
And they'd know that I was scared,
They'd know that I was guessing.
But the wall came down and there they stood before me
With their stumbling and their mumbling
And their calling out just like me.
And, ooh, aah, The stories that nobody hears
And, ooh, aah, and I collect these sounds in my ears
And, ooh, aah, that's what I hear in these sounds
And, ooh, aah, that's what I hear in these
That's what I hear in these sounds.
One day, in a fit of teenage rebellion, I stumbled on one of those rare not-about-love songs when I went to Hastings and bought a Lilith Fair cd. I found it on the used rack for a massive discount and just holding it made my palms sweat. I kept thinking of all the subversive material it might possibly contain. After all, there were some songs by the Indigo Girls and they were, well, you know, lesbians. I kept thinking of the day my brother brought home an Alanis Morisette cd and the way my parents reacted.
But, for the moment, I was a being a rebellious teenager so I bought it and furtively listened to it late at night in my room. A lot of the songs were too arty or too angst-y for my delightfully sheltered Mormon brain. However, there were some songs that really resonated with my inner rhythms--an awesome arrangement of "Eternal Flame" was one of them. (I'm too young to know the '80s version of it, so that cd was my first exposure to that fabulous teenage love song.)
Another of my favorites was a song by Dar Williams called "What do You Hear in These Sounds". Perhaps my liking of the song was a premonition because when I heard Williams' throaty and vulnerable voice croon the first line, "I don't go to therapy to find out if I'm a freak," I knew I had found a personal anthem.
So, since I think putting the actual song on here would be some sort of copyright infringement and I'm afraid of going to jail, I'm posting the lyrics for you all to enjoy. Well, and to be honest, I have no idea how to put a song on my blog. I just barely figured out how to put my picture on here. And my husband had to help with that. So, go to Itunes and look up Dar Williams "What do You Hear in these Sounds" so you know what it's supposed to sound like--it's on there I checked :)
WHAT DO YOU HEAR IN THESE SOUNDS?
I don't go to therapy to find out if I'm a freak
I go and I find the one and only answer every week
And it's just me and all the memories to follow
Down any course that fits within a fifty minute hour
And we fathom all the mysteries, explicit and inherent
When I hit a rut, she says to try the other parent
And she's so kind, I think she wants to tell me something,
But she knows that its much better if I get it for myself...
And she says ooh, aah, what do you hear in these sounds?
And, ooh, aah what do you hear in these sounds?
I say, "I hear a doubt, with the voice of true believing
And the promises to stay, and the footsteps that are leaving."
And she says "Oh." I say "What?" She says "Exactly."
I say, "What, you think I'm angry
Does that mean you think I'm angry?"
She says, "Look, you come here every week
With jigsaw pieces of your past.
It's all on little sound bites and voices out of photographs.
And that's all yours, that's the guide, that's the map.
So tell me, where does the arrow point to?
Who invented roses?"
And, ooh, aah what do you hear in these sounds?
And, ooh, aah what do you hear in these sounds?
And when I talk about therapy, I know what people think
That it only makes you selfish and in love with your shrink
But, oh, how I loved everybody else
When I finally got to talk so much about myself.
And when I wake up and ask myself what state I'm in
I say, "Well I'm lucky, cause I am like East Berlin."
I had this wall and what I knew of the free world
Was that I could see their fireworks
And I could hear their radio.
And I thought that if we met, I would only start confessing,
And they'd know that I was scared,
They'd know that I was guessing.
But the wall came down and there they stood before me
With their stumbling and their mumbling
And their calling out just like me.
And, ooh, aah, The stories that nobody hears
And, ooh, aah, and I collect these sounds in my ears
And, ooh, aah, that's what I hear in these sounds
And, ooh, aah, that's what I hear in these
That's what I hear in these sounds.
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