Reflections in Post

There is a far more obvious choice for story-telling in audio format than audio books.  Music is maybe the most effective way to communicate our deeper, more nuanced truths.  I would guess this has been true for as long as we have, as a species, been able to speak (or at least since someone figured out how to bang two rocks together.)  I feel like musicians are given far more poetic license than novelists, and I think this might be because the music often says what the lyrics alone cannot.  But a really fantastic song, the real gems, have lyrics that work as hard as the instruments, and the combination becomes so much more than the sum of its parts.

 A good song, like a good story, tells us that we're not alone; reaches out with invisible arms and embraces us through our ears.  When we don't feel so alone we can step outside of ourselves for a moment, and gain a sense of clarity that can help us know ourselves better.  It's kind of up to us what we do with our self-knowledge after that, but at least it's an opportunity for growth.

For about the first year after hearing some of Mumford and Sons' songs, I dug my heels in like a mule about them, and insisted that I had outgrown jam bands, because I was too old to subscribe to the bullshit idealism of their smelly, shoe-less fan base.  I had trudged through knee-high mud and excrement at enough music festivals to hear Dave Matthews play the same damn song over and over again, however enthusiastically. I have no idea when I actually listened to a Mumford song instead of just hearing it, but I had to rescind the blanket statements I'd made about them.  All their songs may sound like the same one, but it's a really good one.

Once, while listening to Lovers Eyes, the lyrics "I must live with my quiet rage" grabbed a hold of me, bringing to mind a strong mental image of my father's face.  When the song ended, I started it over again, and listened more carefully to the rest of the lyrics, and in doing so, realized the song seemed to tell the story of my parents' relationship.  They met young, and they were both as deeply willful as they were profoundly insecure.  Because of these insecurities, they were unable to celebrate one another's successes; they could only cut each other down to remain on equal footing.  As time passed, they could only see one another's failings and shortcomings, and only embody reflections of the expressions of them.

Curious if there was anything to the connections I drew between this song and their marriage (which has somehow managed to survive, despite the near constant barrage of petty insults)  I played the song in my car while driving with each of them, individually.  I made no comment about the connections I had made, wanting to get as authentic a response as possible,  I didn't even make a big deal about wanting them to listen to it.  On the first listen, before the song had ended, both were moved to tears.  Both expressed a desire to go back in time, and try to see the best the other had to offer.  Both wished they had loved the other my fully.  

It didn't change anything between them really.  After nearly forty-five years of marriage, their relationship is what it's going to be.  But it doesn't have to be that way for me.  I don't have to live with my quiet rage, and can choose to see the best of the people in my life, instead of being threatened by their strength, so that we all can become more than just the sum of our parts.