Music to me is a big deal. I don’t see it as merely being the soundtrack to life, something that plays in the background, occasionally hitting a crescendo during the milestone moments of our lives. It isn’t merely a way of remembering the past the way a song can make certain memories surface and emotions bubble it’s way back to the top, though it does that very well. It isn’t merely your companion in an otherwise lonely ride home or to school or to work or to wherever it is you’re going or whatever it is you’re running from.
I never really thought about music this deeply. All I knew was I liked it, I needed it. It got me through the day, and in fact, through my entire adolescence. It spoke to me in a way no adult could, no teacher could, no parent could. So I listened. I listened ‘til my ears hurt.
Do you know why people turn on their radios in the car? Because they don’t want to feel alone. We turn them on and leave them on even when we’re not listening. Even when we’re lost in our thoughts barreling down the highway with the window down and the night wind kissing our cheeks.
Some things you only see from the vantage of hindsight. And I’m only realizing now that music was a cathartic release valve keeping me from exploding. As if my heart was filled with so much pressure and nothing could enter nor escape. The release let some of that pressure go and eventually made space, no matter how small, for good things to enter.
And what little good came my way, I held on tight. And friendships grew and trust grew and love grew.
Now I look at my two boys and a part of me hopes that they would never have to need music in the way that I did. Or that they wouldn't have no one who would listen to them or talk to them. Or that they would lose their voice.