There are certain days when I just can’t manage to let hardly any light in. The light is there, that’s not the issue, it’s that my grief or shame or age-old anger has chosen to stand up in the form of a thousand trees and block my shining view. Oh, there are shadows here and reflections there but for the most part things feel crooked and blurry.
On days like this it feels like I let go of my own sturdy momentum and I forget that it’s possible to allow melancholy without being smothered by it. It’s possible to bide my time until the effortless beauty seeps back into my bones and I feel whole.
It reminds me of the way my father used to listen to music. He’d find an album he loved and he’d sit in the living room and replay it over and over and over and over—the same album fifty times in a row. Or sometimes just one song—Dionne Warwick singing Burt Bachrach’s Walk On By or Frank Sinatra singing Carlos Jobim’s Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars.
It used to drive my mother insane. It used to bring me solace.
I think a part of me knew then that he was holding on to his unobstructed beauty while he could have it. While it was there, right next to him, with nothing and no one to block his view. I listen to music this way now. I find a melody or a lyric and I want to sidle up next to that song and get to know it until I’m done. I want to make sure I lap up every bit of that dreamy connected feeling for as long as I can.
Yours In Letting It All Go In Order To Let It All In,