Some weeks ago I wrote about how the the loss of live music and dance was affecting me. But it’s a funny thing: when you don’t have something, it’s hard to comprehend at all how serious of a loss it truly is.
My province is reopening and a local historical park is offering free outdoor music every week this summer. Of course I plan to go as often as I can. Tonight was the first concert.
It was so, so beautiful. I prepared a picnic supper and we ate and listened, and then my 3 year old asked her dad to dance with her, and he danced with her and her older sister, and I danced. And at the front of the stage couples and friends danced, and a whole family holding hands in a circle. Children rolled and somersaulted down the hill, full of the glee of the moment. The breeze was fresh and warm, and then during the last song rain fell.
My main thought was that I am relearning how to be a sane and decent human being. I don’t think I am a horrible person, and I truly have been trying my best whatever came at me and the people around me. But sitting in the field I felt like I have been some shadow version of my true self, more dragon than human most days.
There is more than one kind of reality: thank goodness for the chance to be relearn and to evolve!
The themes are ones I’ve discussed before, in my own mind and with others. What is truth; to what extent do we control reality; should we be fixated on who does and who doesn’t have power. More importantly, what sort of power is really worth having and is that the right word for it.
“The truth” is that which is real, that which truly exists. It is the case that some things have more existence than others. Our own existence is tenuous and ephemeral. We seek that which truly exists that we might, through it, have true existence ourselves. We cannot grant existence to ourselves – it comes as a gift from the only truly Existing One.
Recognizing our existence as tenuous and ephemeral is one thing that might lead us to see the value of tradition. Tradition has, from one perspective, attracted me for a long time. The earliest I can remember being consciously aware of this was in my late teens/early 20s, when I participated on a listserv discussion about Cape Breton Celtic music. (Ah, the good old days of the frontier internet.)
Celtic music was enjoying a bit of a popular revival at the time, with appealing, youthful musicians blending traditional instruments, melodies and themes with contemporary ones. All of it was wholesome, truly: you’d have to stretch to find anything subversive or disturbing in it. Nevertheless, on this listserv I first encountered openly the tension between innovation and tradition. It was the first time I met people who unapologetically argued that traditional forms have more value in the long term than popular innovations. This was quite shocking to me, at first. Somehow, all my education, if not my own experience, had reinforced the message that tradition was something you break away from. It had not occurred to me that there was another side to the story, and that kind and intelligent people might believe in it.
The conversation on that listserv was mostly convivial however, and everyone that I recall was friendly and more than willing to talk with willing listeners. Starting with these discussions, I discovered a way to resolve the tension, at least in the realm of the arts. Tradition is a way of preserving something valuable through community. It allows creative people to encounter something meaningful, giving them a direction and a discipline. Truly innovative people should not be discouraged from experimenting (though it doesn’t hurt them to be challenged, either.). But neither is it possible for everyone, or even most, to be innovative geniuses. A healthy tradition will create a few, but they will never be the majority. However, anybody can participate in the tradition: learning it, supporting it, passing it on to the best of their ability. This participation is just as meaningful in real life as innovation, most of the time. It’s much more meaningful than being part of nothing, that’s for sure.
Once I had articulated this insight, I found a lot of my anxiety about (not) being special, or noticed, or uniquely talented or (yikes!) famous melting away. I could actually enjoy my own creativity more because I wasn’t over-analyzing it. The realization that I could be part, even in a small way, of a tradition that embraced multiple generations, geographies, countries and cultures was amazing. I could be fully myself and more than myself at the same time.
An experience in Scotland when I was 26 catalyzed this idea for me. I was attending a week long music festival, learning step dancing. From my account of that time:
Toward the end of the week, our dance teacher, Frank, went over all the [dance] steps we had learned. Then he solemnly told us to "stop thinking." We aren't just dancing to the music. We aren't just responding to it. We must get right inside it. And to do that, he said, we can't be worrying about what we are doing. Otherwise we are focused on ourselves, and not on the music.
High on endorphins, I wished he would stop making pretty speeches and let us start dancing. But he continued:
"If you relax and let the dance into you, it will teach you. Because I believe music and dancing are much more powerful than mere mortals.
Frank was saying something very similar, if not the same, as Fr. Freeman above. Reality is not something you create. It is discovered, encountered, as a gift.
Frank’s words have stuck with me, as I have continued to dance, write, play music and eventually to teach. I am lucky to sometimes have chances to perform for an audience. Of course this always causes some nervousness. It’s also easy (sadly) to become hyper critical of yourself. After many performances, dancers often start talking obsessively about all the mistakes we made, although these are rarely obvious to those watching and nobody will remember them anyway. It is all self consciousness. But I have found that I can ease the anxiety by remembering Frank’s words. I frame the performance in my mind as an opportunity to share something beautiful I have been given. Dancing with me are unseen generations of people who have transcended time, space and mortality to give me this gift and opportunity. The nerves are there, but I am filled with joy and excitement and I do not have to force a smile for the audience. And if I have practiced and I stay in the moment, I also make fewer mistakes (but regardless, I am part of a long line of people who have made mistakes and danced on).
So that is one side of the story: the attraction to tradition. There is another one too. But this entry has become longer than I expected, so I think I will engage that topic separately. (I do not necessarily know what direction these blog entries will take and often end up writing about something quite different than I originally intended.)
I listen to the Scottish band Runrig a lot lately. Their high energy music (I tend to skip the ballads) is good for morale or redirecting negative energy. But sometimes their happiest music is also a touch depressing, especially the songs recorded live. They remind me of the concerts and other live events that have been cancelled in the name of slowing the spread of Covid-19.
Regardless, I have some favourite songs that I listen to regularly. One of these is “City of Lights.”
“City of Lights” (to my ear anyway) is a celebration of the connection and creativity of life in a city. Although I’ve visited rural areas, and wilderness and nature are important to me, I’ve never lived any length of time outside a city nor have I ever considered doing so.
I arrived in the city of lights Enchanted ballrooms where I lost my life I've closed my eyes On your fairground smile
From the time I was four years old, I’ve gone to concerts and live events, and taken lessons in anything that struck my fancy. I feel as at home in our major concert venues as I do in my living room: as soon as I walk through the door and hear the buzz of conversation, I have a powerful feeling of peace, anticipation and belonging. It’s always been part of my expectation of anywhere I live that I can have such experiences. It is especially meaningful to live in the city of my birth where theatres and concert venues are graced with memories of my childhood, youth and early adulthood. Family outings grew into outings with university friends and dates. Later I would give my parents symphony tickets for Christmas and birthdays. My husband and I also usually gave each other concert, theatre and comedy tickets as presents.
Many of my memories are associated with our downtown, which has a hub of theatres and a big concert hall, surrounded by a cluster of pubs and restaurants of course. I have never actually had a job in the downtown, so I almost completely associate it with dressing up and going out.
Old emotions still burn inside On solid ground, round the mother tongue A tower of hope, a joyful sound You take your time A hand of aces in a pack of lies I found my song and I started to sing Took me away on an olden wing So far from home
So lonely but not alone
The last time we were supposed to go to a concert was March 14 2020: a band from Ireland. The tickets were my 40th birthday present. It was cancelled the day before as that was the first weekend the city closed down. Those tickets were refunded though I’m still hanging on to a couple of other sets for events that keep getting rescheduled into the future. If we are lucky, the future really does arrive one day. But maybe not quite the one we imagined.
Last week I went downtown to get my Covid-19 vaccination, an experience I was neutral to negative on, but decided to go through with anyway. As the train pulled into the station, I realized I cannot actually remember the last time I was downtown. It might have been fall of 2019. Without any theatre or music to go to, there was simply no reason to go. If downtown showed up in the news, it was because of some demonstration or other (it’s also where City Hall is located.) That made me even less likely to want to go there, but I wouldn’t have in any case.
I got off the train and started walking toward the convention centre, where I have attended teachers’ conventions for years, but not the past two. It has been repurposed as a mass vaccination clinic. Now, while I wear a face mask indoors, I do not wear one outside. Usually the minute I’m out the door it’s off my face into my pocket. For the first time though, I had an urge to keep my mask on as I was walking outside. It wasn’t fear of Covid per se; there were no dense crowds. Rather I had the feeling that I was walking in a foreign territory, and I wanted to hide or protect myself. If a suit of armour and a sword had been offered, I would have happily accepted those too.
I actually forced myself to take the mask off because I found these feelings inexplicable and disturbing, and I refused to let myself act on them. Nothing about the downtown area looked noticeably different than I remembered. I was not in a foreign or dangerous country. My behaviour should not change! But the mask went on again the minute I was in sight of my destination, and I felt a distinct relief at being concealed and armoured against the unfamiliar and for some reason, vaguely threatening environment of the city I’ve lived in all my life.
All things considered, I’ve had a happy and stable life the past year and a half. I love my neighbourhood; I love the parks and nature areas we can drive to; I have no quarrel with any person I know, though I see friends much less often. Work has taken the place of most of my social life, and luckily I like my work. But the strange feelings I experienced downtown do remind me of a loss. The loss is the communion with other people around an experience of mutual interest and transformation. They might be friends or family; they might be strangers with whom I only share the experience of being an audience. But it is a loss of connection, and it makes me much more likely to see strangers and even once familiar places in a defensive or hostile light.
In this empire of ache and rhyme
Lovers and best friends are running blind
I don’t run blind now, at least not outside my neighbourhood. I’m wary and I want to be gone, as quick as I can. There is no city of lights for me in our downtown anymore.
But for all that, I am not going to stop listening to “City Of Lights” or other songs that remind me of happier times. When the real thing is not happening, the memory of it is even more important so that we don’t forget such realities are still possible.
I grasp your hand Is this the only world I understand There's a sadness There's a joy There's a place There's a song that will never die Forever
I usually have only one request on weekends. Can we leave the city? Find a mountain? Walk in the woods? See different scenery? Air out my brain? Get out of my head?
Sometimes we actually drive to the mountains (or the foothills); sometimes we only make it to a playground or city park. Whatever the diversion, it’s welcome. Walking helps me relax and think. In my 20s, and single, I would spend hours roaming about on weekends. In Greece, I would catch a bus out of the city and explore beaches, hills, ruins. When we were dating, and in the first years of our marriage, my husband and I would also jump in the car and drive, often without a destination.
Now with kids it’s rather less convenient to go driving to nowhere on impulse, and we rarely walk far and pick up a lot of rocks when we do. But escaping to nature is still where my wandering mind goes. Especially as spring approaches, I think about leaving the city incessantly. Covid and its accompanying restrictions and reductions on life add to the angst.
On that note this is my favourite song lately. I don’t tend to respond to music as rapturously as I did when younger but sometimes a song hits my mood the right way still and I can’t get enough.
And what exactly I wonder are “ceilidh boots?” Whatever they are, I want some!
Take heart: cheat the dark Get driving with the lark As cities sleep Steal a march before the sun It's all philosophy On an open motorway Chasing break of day Somewhere on a border town I've packed my ceilidh boots I've got my "once was" looks I've got my tubes and hooks Reel, drogue, priest and bung Throw away your fears Peel away the years I've seen too many leaves Falling down
This post started because someone in one of my discussion groups asked "Why do people pursue romantic love?" He claimed to have never been in love and to not understand the experience. He asked why people think it worthwhile, if they do.
After many had weighed in with their ideas, I found myself thinking about songs that best express what is worthwhile about love. Of course there are endless answers to this question and I might answer differently depending on the day, but these are the ones that came to mind at the time.
1) Love found. I think the song "Now I see the Light" from the movie Tangled captures the transformative experience of finding love. "Now that I see you": the lover sees the divine in his/her beloved. In true love for another we see what is good and beautiful in the world. The part is the whole, and the whole is the part.
"And at last I see the light
And it's like the fog has lifted
And at last I see the light
And it's like the sky is new
And it's warm and real and bright
And the world has somehow shifted
All at once everything looks different
Now that I see you"
2) Love Lost. Leonard Cohen's "Hallejulah" both shows the pain of losing love and is a refusal to sink into despair.
"Even though it all went wrong, I'll stand up here before the lord of song, with nothing on my tongue by Hallejulah."
3) Love when it's a struggle: One True Love, by Jill Barber, sung by Jill and Matthew Barber
This song explores why love is worth fighting for. We do not get the impression that the speaker in the song has had an easy life. He or she has made mistakes, but has found a love worth standing up for. I love the throwaway relativism of "If you believe in that sorta thing" in the chorus contrasted with the speaker's firm belief that there is one true love.
Below is the live acoustic version. Look how cute they are! But I do actually prefer the non-acoustic version because it suits the aggressive nature of the lyrics. This song will get in your personal space and elevate your heart rate, in a good way.
Tooth and nail I would fight for you
Use my heart like a fist till it’s black and blue
Cause when you find your one true love
That is the time to show what you are made of
Sure I’ve loved and lost before
Bitten and bruised and sorry and sore
But this time I am back for more
And to fight
[Chorus]
For your one true love
Your one true love
If you believe in that sorta thing like I do
Your one true love
Your one true love
If you believe in that sorta thing like I do
4) Seeking, but not (yet) finding love: "No One Talks" by Moya Brennan
It is extremely hard to be looking for love and not finding it. If this struggle goes on for any length of time, then often people wonder, is there something wrong with me? is love even real? is looking for it worthwhile? It can be easy to make excuses to give up, to not bother. This song is about questioning those impulses and pushing through. Looking for love can force you to confront what you actually believe about yourself and life and can be an impetus to transform.
Now no one talks, no one to listen
No one to laugh with to share a life
Now no one cries, no one to pray with
Now who will love?
Is this what you believe?
Is this what you believe?
That no one loves, no one to warm to
Does no one care?
5) So finally, how did I come to believe what I believe about love? Well, I could write books about that, as could most people if so inclined. But I will just say here, this next song went though my head over and over when I was living abroad, and when I started to listen to it, I think it taught me something about myself, and maybe life in general.
Youth will in time decay, Eileen Aroon
Beauty must fade away, Eileen Aroon
Castles are sacked in war, chieftains are scattered far
Truth is a fixed star, Eileen Aroon
I need and want my "fixed star." I don't mind the long journey, the doubt, the uncertainty, the complexity of the world. All this I accept, and more than that, I find it fascinating. But I also believe in following the "fixed star." We will make mistakes on the way and get lost, and believe wrong and foolish things. This is inevitable. More important is to know where we are going and what we are aiming at. Love is something worth aiming at, whether or not at the present moment one can grasp it.
