Tag Archives: Music

The End of the Line

Posted on by
4

Here I am at the three-month mark since Mom died. I’m still sorting and clearing and cleaning. That will go on for awhile. As I’m doing all of those things, I’m also doing a lot of thinking about legacy and the “stuff” that’s left behind when someone dies. I touched upon this in an earlier post, but I’m thinking about it more broadly now.

The items upon which I’ve been focusing have been clothes, shoes, handbags, knick-knacks, etc. Basically these are the items that don’t have an emotional connection. These have been relatively easy to part with. There’s a whole other category of items that aren’t things I have to part with now, but eventually someone will. I don’t mean any heirlooms with any monetary or historical value that could be left to family or friends. I’m talking about items that spouses, partners, siblings, children or grandchildren keep. I have none of those people in my life. I am the end of the line. I am alone.

This isn’t some shocking revelation. I’ve been an only child my entire life. I never wanted children and I have no partner. So, what happens to the category of “stuff” that matters more than clothing, isn’t of tangible value, but marks a life and the important moments in it?

What are some of these things? My father’s baseball trophy from Junior High School, my parents’ high school yearbooks, and photographs. Lots of photographs of people I may not even know and someone else will surely not know. Sure, I can keep these now, but what about when I’m gone? These things don’t matter to anyone else. Then there’s all of my stuff. The items I’ve accumulated, but also all of the things my mother kept from my childhood.

You see, my parents couldn’t have children for nine years so when I finally came along, they were ecstatic and they poured all of their love into, and attention onto, me. Part of this meant that my mother chronicled everything. You should see my baby book! Measurements, details of birthday gifts for the first seven years of my life. My favorite songs from when I was two years old. In case you’re curious, they were “Alfie”, “Georgy Girl”, and “Bye, Bye Baby”, (the San Francisco Giants “fight” song). That same year, 1967, my biggest accomplishments were: knowing my ABCs and counting to 18 by the time I was two years and 10 months old. Interesting to me, but worthless to anyone else.

I came across a plastic baggie containing my baby teeth the other day. I’m sure my mother forgot she even had them. I get why she kept them, but what do I do with them? Or with the lock of hair snipped off when I was born or with the baby shoes my parents had bronzed?  When you’re the end of the line, what does that mean for your past, your history, your “stuff”? What does it mean for you?

The Healing Power of Art

Posted on by
6

Today marks two months since my mother passed and a month since my last blog post. I’m still occupied with what I wrote about in that post: clearing out clothes, cleaning up clutter, making phone calls, and signing documents. There is progress being made on all those fronts, thankfully. I still haven’t had a service for Mom yet and I don’t know when that will happen. Mom wanted to spare me the stress and pain of having a rosary and funeral Mass and instead opted for a Memorial Mass whenever I was up to it. For a number of reasons, including emotional and financial ones, I just haven’t felt ready.

What has been helping me, at least emotionally, has been art. I think many of us were reminded during the lockdowns of 2020 just how much art matters. When we couldn’t gather to see live music, or an art exhibition, or take in a movie or a play, there was a sense of loss. This loss, coupled with not being able to be in the company of family or friends, has led to isolation and depression.

When my mother died, I suddenly found myself alone in a house that I had lived in for the better part of 38 years. I had moved away twice during that time, but those times were brief and over twenty years ago. I see her everywhere I look: her furniture, her style, her “stuff”. This isn’t a bad thing, but I knew I had to start making changes so this place would feel more like mine. Hanging some new art on the walls was a place to start. Thanks to a website called Artfinder, I came across a talented woman named Kathy Morton Stanion. Her paintings spoke to me and I purchased this piece that immediately enveloped me in a calming, peaceful embrace.

Kathy and I exchanged many emails back and forth and we found out we shared things in common. Her beautiful painting marked one of the first steps in my healing journey.

The second artist who has helped me is a talented singer, songwriter, and pianist named Natalie Nicole Gilbert. We’ve followed each other on Twitter for a long time and I don’t know how that started, really. We never interacted until after Mom died and her latest album was being released. Its title is perfect: Recovery. This album is all about recovery in its various forms and its release and appearance in my life is more than coincidental. It’s perfectly timed by something more powerful than me.

As with Kathy, Natalie and I have shared some wonderful interactions and again, found lots of common ground. This is the power of art, of connection, and of well, technology. Despite the negative aspects that social media and the internet in general can draw into your life, it introduced me to two women who are bringing beauty into the world one painting and one song at a time. They and their art are making a stressful, sad, difficult time easier for me. This is how art can heal and uplift. We’re all artists in some way. Think about how can you bring healing and joy into the world. You don’t have to paint or sing.  A kind word. A listening ear. A cooked meal. Anything done with love is art. And more love and more art is exactly what all of us need.

Finding Paradise in a Cruel World

Posted on by
8

 

 

 

 

We’ve all heard the saying that “Music calms the savage beast”. I haven’t been in the company of any beasts bordering on savagery lately, so I’ll just have to take it on faith. What I do know, however, is how music can inspire and soothe a sad and solitary soul. That has been the state of my own soul more times than not lately.

When I’m in one of these dark places, the last thing I want to do is go out and be around people. But that’s exactly what I need to do. Luckily for me and my morose mood, I decided to venture over to Berkeley a couple of nights ago to hear some music. Two musicians who I knew via Twitter were performing. Gretchen Peters is an award-winning singer-songwriter and a fellow “grammar geek”. I mentioned Gretchen back in this post. She has a new album out called Hello Cruel World. Accompanying her on the tour is Barry Walsh, an amazing pianist and songwriter and also Gretchen’s husband. Barry, too, has a new album out called, “Paradiso”.

Barry’s piano playing evokes such powerful emotions in me. Whether the songs are his compositions or his take on something by French composer Erik Satie, for example, Barry’s playing brings me to tears. The tears may be joyful or filled with sadness, but I’m definitely moved.

What sets Gretchen’s music apart from much of what we hear today is authenticity. She not only tells you a story but she uses her words beautifully to paint a scene, set a mood or describe a character. There are no clichés or gimmicks to be found. Take for example these lyrics:

 

There’s a man out here puts his head in the mouth of a crocodile.
Puts the whole thing in, takes it out and gives the crowd a great big smile.
“Woman on the Wheel”

The moon had a fight with the parking lot light
And slunk off to hide in the clouds.
“Camille”

I’m a ticking clock, a losing bet.
I’m a girl without a safety net.
I’m a cause for some concern.
“Hello Cruel World”

Hello Cruel World walks on the darker side when it comes to the mood it exudes. You may think that a dark collection of songs would be the last type of music to lift me out of my heavy fog. When I listen to Gretchen’s stories about regret or resolve, passion or pain, it provides exactly what’s been lacking in my life: connection. Certain lyrics resonate and make me feel less alone in my solitude or sorrow. When you add the benefit of sharing the experience with others, be they friends or strangers, the effect is like an elixir.

I know that one night out, or one CD isn’t a cure-all for life’s problems. But what it is a cure for is that sense of isolation that arises from the feeling that nobody else knows what you’re going through. A gifted artist can reach inside himself or herself and pull something out that reverberates with something within you. Gretchen and Barry do this for me and I want to thank them for that.

I urge you to check out both of their sites and if they’re coming to a town near you on their tour, make a point to see them in concert. At the very least, take a listen to some of their music. You will not be sorry.

There’s the Rub

Posted on by
2

 

I have a love/hate relationship with massage. On the one hand, I enjoy giving them and I’ve been told I’m very good at it. On the other hand, I’ve yet to receive one that left me feeling better, not worse.

 

 

My physical therapist is astounded by how tight and stiff my neck, shoulders and back are. And knead, push and pull as she might, I don’t seem to loosen up. So, I’m thinking that perhaps it’s time to give massage another shot.

The last experience I had with massage was over a decade ago and I don’t remember much except that during and after, I felt like a baseball bat hit me all over my body. From my experience as a massage giver, I know that’s not the way to get repeat business (or a another date, for that matter).

You may be wondering (or at least I hope you are), just how I learned to give massages. Well, I have to take you back to the not-so-golden days of high school. At St. Rose Academy, Christmas break really didn’t mean a complete break. The week before school was to resume, we were given a choice of activities from which to choose for our intellectual or cultural enrichment. These included:

Travel: Enjoy a week in Lake Tahoe or Mazatlan with a teacher as chaperone. I don’t know what exactly skiing in Tahoe was supposed to teach but the case could be made for brushing up on your Spanish in Mexico. I’m sure there were many girls who asked, “¿Donde esta Ramon? El es muy guapo.” This option was chosen by: Rich girls generally, and slutty, rich girls, specifically.

Volunteering: Work at a soup kitchen, help at the local recycling center or other such worthy endeavors. This option was chosen by: Really religious girls or girls looking to pad those college applications with heart string-pulling extra-curricular activities.

Classes: Show up at school and learn something that isn’t part of the standard curriculum during the year. I distinctly remember learning dance steps to The Manhattan Transfer’s Boy From New York City in one such class. To this day, I dislike that song. Another class offering was shiatsu massage. This option was chosen by: You guessed it. Me.

It was a couple years later while in college that I picked up that old massage book and starting practicing on my friends. I don’t recall how it came up in conversation but when my friends found out that I learned shiatsu massage, they begged me to give them all one. (Oh, how I wished some cute girl would have wanted a massage. But, alas, I was still trying to convince myself that I was straight. Unsuccessfully, I might add.)

Back then, a typical Saturday night for me and the dateless bunch I hung out with consisted of drinking wine, talking about ideas (philosophy, politics, etc.), and listening to music. Most often our music of choice was mellow and along the lines of Sade or Bryan Ferry. Ferry’s Boys and Girls album provided the primary musical background to those evenings. (Too bad it wasn’t the background to other kinds of evenings with people who weren’t my friends, if you catch my drift.)

I do miss those days. I was young and in college and my life was ahead of me, full of possibilities. I enjoyed deep conversations and even deeper laughs. Fast forward 26 years and the only place I seem to experience either chat or chuckles is via social media. While Twitter and Facebook can do many things, you can’t give or get a massage and discuss past lives while this plays in the background:

Too bad.