"Tokyo Sunrise" by LP

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Every once in a while, I will stumble across a song that crashes onto the couch of my mind and stays there for days like an out-of-town house-guest. I first heard the song above just a few days ago on Monday and it's been fading in and out of my mental soundtrack ever since. As I've previously discussed, sometimes what makes a song standout is a single, subtle twist on an old familiar convention. This song contains several. Here are a couple:

Thematic Production: When the song begins, you might not expect it to venture beyond the borders of the pop-ballad formula. There's a guitar, some percussion, and a singer, all strummin', drummin', and hummin' up a great tune. Around 1:05, some violins dance their way into the mix and begin to recolor the song. This is now the chorus ("Where you gonna go, where you gonna go?") and the instrumentation is busier than before with additional percussion and other subtleties added to the track. Then, at 1:36, following a sweeping vocal glissando (the cool thing she does at the end of the word "again") we're suddenly in the midst of a soaring, ethnically-themed ballad that immerses the listener into the "Tokyo" imagery.

Melody: Part of how the song conveys this theme to the listener is the melody that is being sung by the vocals and played by the strings. They are playing around a series of five notes (with a few exceptions) that sound good pretty much anywhere at any time during the song. Many melodies are based on this scale and although it is common in countless folk tunes all over the world, it sounds characteristically Oriental if played in a certain manner. Technically speaking, the song is in the key of F#, so the melody is being played with the F# major pentatonic scale. Here's a quick visual:

Typical F# major scale:                           F#     G#     A#     B     C#     D#     E     F#
Solfege ("do -  a deer, a female deer..."):            Do    Re      Mi     Fa    Sol    La      Ti    Do

F# major pentatonic scale:                     F#     G#     A#     -      C#     D#     -       F#
Solfege:                                                    Do    Re      Mi      -      Sol    La      -       Do

If you are near a keyboard, you can easily play it: Notice how all of the black-keys are in repeating pairs of two and three. For every group of three black keys, the F# is the first one on the left. Play only the black notes anywhere on the keyboard, and you are playing the notes of the F# pentatonic scale (F#, G#, A#, C#, D#). If you want to play along with the song, you're guaranteed to sound pretty good if you stick to these notes.

It is this smart use of the pentatonic scale that richly blends a new vibe into the track, uniquely distinguishing it from a standard, American pop radio song.

Meter: A songs meter describes part of the general format of the song. It determines how many beats (or 'counts') are in each measure (a repeating chunk of music). Regardless of genre, but especially in pop music, most songs tend to have four beats per measure. That means you could repeatedly and steadily count "1 - 2 -3 - 4" to the beat of the music. If you've ever seen a live performance, you may have noticed that the drummer (usually) will click their sticks and count these numbers out loud right before the band starts playing. By doing this, the drummer is counting each beat (the meter) so the band can get a sense of how fast (the tempo) they are about to play the song.

This song breaks that convention in a pretty major yet subtle way: It has seven beats per measure. Seven?!? Yes, seven. But the way it is played out in this song feels so natural that its almost unnoticeable at first.

To hear these beats, focus on the drums. They begin playing at the 0:10 mark, right when LP starts singing (on beat 1 of that particular measure). Notice that they are played in groups of two. They are playing on beats one, three, four, and seven of each measure throughout the song. See if you can count along. You may also notice that the general rhythm of the guitar and some other instruments follow this pattern (rewind to the beginning of the song and hear how the guitar is playing this rhythm even before the drums come in).

Songs with four beats per measure are usually pretty easy to dance or clap along with because four is a very even, rounded number. You would think that a song with seven beats would feel a little "wobbly." But not so here. There could be many reasons for this. I think the largest contributor is the singing. As listeners, our ears tend to be drawn to the vocalist in the band. The instruments play repeating sequences of music that ease into the background but the vocalist is singing words with specific definitions and those words change throughout the song, bringing them to the forefront of our attention. LP sings this song with a fairly relaxed vibe. Nothing about the singing communicates, "I'm singing over seven beats per measure and this is really difficult; I might lose count!" Coupled with the minimalistic rhythm of the drums, pounding out only every few beats, this musically mathematical anomaly is cleverly disguised.

Check out some of the songs that have recently found their way into your "favorites" playlist. Maybe you'll find some hidden gems within them too!

Childhood: Lost or found?

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I found this song recently on a Spotify playlist. I like it because the lyrics capture the sometimes wordless phenomenon that seems to be fairly common among individuals trekking their way through the wide world of adulthood. It seems to be a popular subject for artistic expression as it has been portrayed from many different perspectives in media such as "Stop This Train" by John Mayer, "Cat's in the Cradle" by Henry Chapin, and the book "Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger, just to name a few. 

This phenomenon, in a nutshell, is a feeling of loss in regards to childhood in the face of adulthood's challenges.  

This theme is all over the lyrics of this particular song as it depicts the stress of adulthood and changing values:

"I was told when I get older all my fears would shrink

But now I'm insecure and I care what people think...

Wish we could turn back time, to the good ol' days

When our momma sang us to sleep but now we're stressed out"

Does this ever happen to you? Do you ever notice yourself being overly conscious about what someone (or a whole lot of someones) are thinking about you? Do you wonder why that stresses you out when you might not have been concerned about it when you were younger? 

It sure happens to me at times. 

How come? It's not like the world with all of its problems wasn't there when we were little. The end of the song seems to provide a theory: 

"We used to play pretend, give each other different names

We would build a rocket ship and then we'd fly it far away

Used to dream of outer space but now they're laughing in our face

Saying, 'Wake up, you need to make money'"

Money. The turning of a child into a profitable cog in the economic machine. I think that's part of it. Perhaps money is a branch of a deeper root that feeds this nostalgic condition. 

When people look back on childhood, different words may come to mind. From the descriptions and depictions of childhood that I've come across, it seems to me that "carefree" is a common characteristic that many would agree is part of the ideal childhood. To be carefree can be interpreted many ways: without responsibility, without anxiety, without fear. This isn't the same as being lazy or ignorant. 

Think of how a child interacts with the world. They have a very small but growing library of knowledge, experience, and wisdom with which to operate. They haven't yet learned how to do things efficiently, gracefully, or professionally and haven't yet been taught the mechanics of qualities like greed, kindness, hatred, love, envy, or generosity. They're taking everything in and responding to it based on the basic elements of who they are. In other words, they're just being themselves and they're really good at it. The concept of "saving face" or "fake it 'till you make it" are as distant to them as stars in another galaxy. 

As a child grows up, those distant concepts come closer as they learn them through direct instruction and practice or through indirect observation. As we grow, we understand that there is more to do in life than to just be. We start learning concepts in school, getting grades, being rewarded or punished for our performance, getting jobs, getting paid, getting promoted or demoted. We start to realize that there are certain people we want to impress; friends, family, a potential employer, date, or spouse. Winning their favor feels good. Losing it feels bad. 

Here's a thought: Childhood is about learning to be, which provides the context for an adulthood of learning to do. When you were little, you didn't need the latest gadgets, cars, a fat paycheck, or be the popular prom king to be content. For the most part, you could probably keep yourself pretty well entertained by running around in the backyard, playing with sticks or drawing with chalk. As an adult, many people seek to build, learn, advance their careers, expand their circle of influence. 

I think the tension arises when the culture around us isolates childhood and adulthood from each other, treating them as if they are two completely different and irrelevant worlds. Society doesn't currently have a great system for rewarding people for being. It's more focused on the doing. Students are pressured to choose the best colleges, to pursue a major that will land them a job in a secure and profitable field, to strive for a well-polished GPA. Not that good grades and career choices are bad goals but like most things, when they're taken out of proper context, things can get messy. People start to be valued not for who they are but for what they can do. The message that looms over children like an ominous storm-cloud is often something like, "Enjoy these years because these are the best years of your life." Does that mean it's all downhill afterwards and the fun stops? Is it any wonder that adulthood can be intimidating and overly complicated? And is it any wonder, still, that so many people seem dissatisfied with it? 

I don't think that's the way it has to be though.

Rather than fostering a culture that segregates the wonder of childhood from the productivity of adulthood, we should be bridging them. The order should be something like: because of who you are, therefore do. That way, when the job falls through or you don't make as much money as everyone else around you, the world doesn't fall apart. You keep on truckin'. In other words, what you do, make, and produce should be qualities that grow like fruit from the rich soil of your identity. Not the other way around. 

In the bible, a very well-educated and formerly highbrow man named Paul wrote something quite profound when he said "I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret to being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want." What is that secret? "I can do all this through [Jesus] who gives me strength" (Phillippians 4:12-13). Paul knew that his identity was secure in the God that created it. That's why, even though being hungry and "living in want" were still challenging, he didn't freak out when those times came. His identity didn't hinge on whether or not he was able to bring home the bacon. Not exactly the motivation that propel some folks up the rungs of the ol' corporate ladder.

So what about us? Do we treat ourselves (or others) as though we're worthless without a six-digit bank account to prove other-wise? Are the raw components of our identities, unmasked in childhood, a far-off blip in our memory that is preserved only in photo albums and fuzzy home-videos? 

A lot of good can be done to change the world. But what we do to change it isn't everything. 

Just a thought. 

The Spirit

Whenever I think I've "caught" the Spirit in anything,

Whatever "the thing" was dies

You see, the Spirit is a being that will not be contained

It is best observed in its elusion

It is most at rest in its pursuit

It is fully seen as a flickering glimpse in the far corners of our sight

It is understood only when its mystery dances tauntingly above our intellect

It is captured only when it is just beyond our ever-reaching grasp

The Spirit is the fiery stallion that, dancing wild and free,

Will trample the cage of the mind

And set ablaze the mountainous plains of the heart and soul

The Reflection of Art

This painting, entitled "Adventurer", was created by Janet Seaman. This painting has a story. And so do I.

Janet lived very full life that will be remembered for many things. As my Grandmother-in-law, I was honored to get to know her during her last three years on earth. Janet's life was spent in the service of others as a dedicated school teacher, artist, and mother of six. From what I have been told, it was hard to catch her when she wasn't deeply involved in one of those pursuits. However, she did find time for traveling the world where she observed beautiful landscapes that may have served as the inspiration for most of her paintings.

One of her many notable accomplishments involved painting the walls of the Niles-Buchanan YMCA indoor running track with a panoramic mural. The work was a historical portrayal of the cultural and industrial milestones that took place in the region of Michigan where the YMCA is located. The project covered 1/18th of a mile with colorful landscapes that changed occupants from the Native Americans to French and British colonies to modern society. Runners making their way around the track could watch history unfold in seamless transitions across the centuries.

Before her passing in December of 2014, Janet often told the stories behind her paintings and the process involved in creating them. No matter how daunting or technically difficult the task seemed to be, it was clear that those details easily gave way to the joy and love with which she accomplished them.

My wife has written, edited, and published two books that catalogue many of Janet's works and convey the stories behind them. Every piece has its own story. Every work that was made through the creative intention of someone's mind, heart, hands, and soul has its own story.

And every human has their own story too.

There are at least two ways to appreciate any work of art, whether it is a painting, a song, or piece of literature: technically and personally. Often times, one's technical appreciation goes hand-in-hand with their personal love for a work but not always. For example: Regarding jazz music, I can appreciate the fact that there is technical mastery and skill in both the instrument playing and composition. However, I do not have a personal taste for jazz; given a choice between several styles of music I would likely not choose to listen to jazz. On the other hand, my parents personally loved the finger paintings and mysteriously shaped pottery I produced in elementary school, but there was nothing technical about those masterpieces to praise.

For Janet's work, the viewer will immediately find a broad palette of technical skill to hold their attention and awe. The depth, color, and shade that enlivens the contoured landscapes, the choice of historical or geographical content, and the time spent on the piece are a few examples.

On the personal side of things, what can this piece, as one that you have likely never seen before, do for you? As I said at the beginning, this painting has a story. But perhaps not the kind of story you may expect.

In a way, art works similarly to color. When light strikes an object, some wavelengths are absorbed by the object while others are reflected. The object obtains its distinct color according to the wavelengths that are reflected. When we are exposed to art, it can either pass right through or strike something within us that can color and lighten that which was previously invisible or unknown. This is a principle that I am certain we are all familiar with to some degree. Just think of a song you've heard or a movie you've seen that seemed to aptly put un-named emotions and memories into words.

The painting above strikes something in me that encapsulates a scenario I have repeatedly found myself in throughout life, like a recurring dream. While I have had the pleasure of being in the midst of grand mountain landscapes geographically speaking, this painting colors the figurative landscapes that I have encountered. Just like the hiker in the painting, I have found myself dwarfed by the immensity of all that surrounds me. And just as color changes based on wavelengths, my reactions and emotions to being the tiny hiker change based on the setting. At times, I am frightened to be so small in the presence of such looming mountains. At other times, I am struck with wonder at what lies ahead and the joy of being able to explore and discover. And there are those moments when both are simultaneously true.

For me, this is the story of the painting, "Adventurer", as I best understand it now: my wife and I are awaiting the arrival of our child. Once again, I am a small hiker in the presence of something greater and larger than myself. Life in all of its color is being drawn out in shimmering yet mysterious patterns as it reflects off of this new season.

I am joyful.

I am overwhelmed.

I am the adventurer.

Pogo and Jesus

Let's talk about pogo and Jesus. No, not the Pogo Stick craze that rocked the socks off of your childhood and no, I'm not talking about Jesus jumping on one either...although that image is pretty funny.

The pogo I'm talking about haunted my pre-adolescent waking life like a canker sore for a long time. A very long time. At-least-a-year long time (which, to a 12 year-old, is about 8-16% of their entire life-span).

Pogo was a "game" that was really a form of sociological torture, likely invented by an alpha-dog monarch who used it to stealthily sift his like-minded allies from the clueless peasantry. I was first introduced to pogo as a wee-lad in Boy Scouts where said sifting was enacted on a frequent basis. We met on Tuesday nights in a church hall that, for two-hours, became an independent nation in which we lowly younger Scouts were subjugated to the authoritarian elder Scouts and their bidding.

Such bidding sometimes involved keeping them entertained. Keeping them entertained sometimes involved pogo. And pogo always involved anguish and madness.

Here's why: Pogo was a "repeat-after-me" game in which the initiating player would draw in the dirt with a stick while saying the phrase, "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?" The observing player would then have to mimic their sequence. What made the game "fun" was that there was a secret action included in their sequence that the observing player would have to repeat in their performance in order to win. As far as I know, the gesture was always the same in every game. In my experience, gameplay typically went as follows:


Pogo Guy:       <ahem>
                        "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?"
                        <rhythmically chanted while drawing patterns in the dirt with a stick...hands stick to me>

Me:                  <takes the stick>
                         "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?"
                        <said in the same rhythmic speech while drawing the same patterns I observed>

Pogo Guy:       <smirking>
                         "Nope"
                         <turns to another guy>
                         <ahem>
                         "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?

Another Guy:   <ahem>
                         "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?"
                         <said while sort of mimicking the patterns, but not entirely accurate>

Pogo Guy:        "You got it dude!"

Both Guys:        <hi-fives, chest bumps, and hoots of celebration>

Me:                   <a year of wallowing in despair for want of forsaken knowledge>


Do you get the point? There was a secret society and I was not in it. And, technically speaking, that was really lame. On two accounts. One was the secret; the fact the I couldn't figure out the answer to the puzzle and it stuck in my head like a bad riddle. Second was the society; the feeling of exclusion from the in-crowd who was having a grand old time with their warm and cozy "in-the-know" status while I was shivering outside in the cold.

I wanted to solve the riddle and join the party. I meticulously studied the way they played the game, perfectly repeated every lilt in their voice as they spoke the words, and precisely reproduced the minutiae of every dot, dash, and swoop of the patterns they drew with the stick. I would always be crushed because I just "didn't get it." I begged them to tell me the secret. In one impassioned moment, I even shed tears while imploring for the answer. My pleas succeeded only in causing the pogo-knower before me to repeat the game slower and louder. Needless to say, that's not what I wanted.

The torment ended one day when my friend Ben decided to tell me the answer. I have no idea why he did or how he found out. Ben and I were the same age so he had no need to establish age-based dominance over me. Perhaps he was let in on the secret and wanted to share it with me in the same way a prisoner shares rumors of coming rescue with his inmates. We were on a campout and I suddenly found myself in conversation about the game with him. He happily told me the secret and when I heard it, it was as though a river of living water was poured into the parched mouth of my soul.

What was the secret? It was simple: To clear your throat.

That's right. The secret that kept me in bondage for all that miserable time was the little <ahem> that preceded "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?" In the arena of pogo, once you got that little cough out into the air, you've won the game.

Everything that follows, hinged on that one little gesture.

Just like Jesus.

Uh...what? 

Let me explain.

In high school, I wanted to get to know Jesus. I started reading about him, thinking about what he's like, trying to be like him, asking myself things like "what would Jesus do in this situation?" and then trying to do it. Yet I still had a hard time wrapping my mind around the concept of trying to get to know someone that I couldn't physically hang out with in the same way that I could with my friends. I could call a friend of mine on the phone, go over their house, hi-five them, hear the inflections in their voice, see what color shirt they were wearing, see their facial expressions in reaction to what they were feeling. I couldn't do the same thing with Jesus.

High school saw me changing in terms of personality, behavior, and beliefs. Yet at the same time, problems arose from a combination of confusing elements: some long-held struggles with obsessive compulsive disorder, guilt and fear over my recent understanding about sin and hell, and an apparent inability to call Jesus on the phone and talk to him directly about my worries.

Things got more confusing in college when I would find myself with people that spoke a different spiritual dialect than what I was used to. I would hear things like, "I was talking to God yesterday and he said that ____ (insert deep spiritual truth here)" or "I don't know about you, but when I ____ (insert regular spiritual practice here)." It is certainly not wrong to express one's experience this way and I'm certain that the impact those folks had on me was unintentional. But, due to the personal complications I mentioned earlier, this was the beginning of a long and difficult journey.

And this has what to do with pogo?

Alright, alright.

I felt like I was on the outside. It seemed I was perpetually on the losing side of a spiritual pogo game. Whether this was their intention or not, it seemed as though someone had just scribbled some cryptic script into the sand and chanted, "Do you know Jesus like I know Jesus?" and was now offering the stick to me. But I couldn't do it. I didn't know the secret trick. I wasn't at a point where I could confidently affirm to other people, "God told me ___" or claim to have unshakeable confidence in areas where I still had doubt. I didn't know what that meant. But I was trying. I really wanted what they had. I really wanted to talk to God, tell him how insecure I was, and have a back-and-forth dialogue serve as evidence of the fact that he cared about me and loved me. Something must be so terribly wrong with me that my time with God doesn't resemble theirs.

The more I began to feel excluded by those around me, the more I began to feel excluded by God. I started to feel like God himself was now handing me the stick, after writing the complexities of the bible and life itself into the sand, and was now expecting me to figure it out. In my mind, God became the frightening leader of a confidential club and I didn't know the secret hand-shake to be admitted. Initially, things like reading the bible, going to church, and praying were the natural result of a blossoming and relational faith. However, they were quickly becoming forced attempts to learn the trick and gain acceptance.

Eventually, this all began to change. Whereas pogo changed for me in an instant, my poisoned thoughts detoxified over time with steady doses of truth.

It's a long story and I'm sure you'll hear more about it in later posts. For now, I'll summarize:

The contrast between the God I claimed to believe in and the God that I actually believed in became increasingly obvious. Jesus said he was the one and only necessary ingredient for our sin records to be wiped out. I, however, lived as though it were up to me to clean that slate and that the single ingredient of Jesus was too simple, too elementary to apply in my case. There must be something else, like praying more, being more devoted, or helping every old lady within a 10-mile radius cross the street. Jesus blew the cover off of religious secret societies who treated God's acceptance like a trophy to be won or bought by the rich, strong, popular, and morally impeccable. He freely offered it to the poor, the weak, the nobody's, the disgraced. Yet I was living as though God was an untouchable celebrity who would never in a billion years even know who I was until I had somehow worked my way into his circle of influence.

I think Jesus came to simplify and broaden the accessibility of God to people, not to complicate and constrain it. Sure, there are spiritual complexities that are not easily clarified and there are practices like church-going and praying that are helpful. But if Jesus is only the subtle <ahem> that is quickly forgotten in the grand display of our devotion, then we're going to miss the point of it all.

And so will the watching world around us.

No games. No tricks.

Simple.

What's your story?

Please note: In case the video above does not play properly in this window, you can view it directly by clicking here.

Google Glass, in case you haven't heard of it, was a Google project that involved a set of glasses with a built-in camera and computer display that would occupy the upper-right quadrant of the wearer's field of vision. With a series of voice commands, the user could perform the same basic functions of a smartphone; send and receive calls and text messages, take pictures, record video, look up directions, navigate maps with live GPS data, hold a live video call, and translate words between languages (seems odd to call those "basic functions" doesn't it?). 

The video above is a succinct yet engaging overview of all the capabilities of the product. Through the clips composing the video, we get to experience the heart-stopping thrill of a skydive, the precision of a trapeze artist catching a fellow performer as they sail through the air, and the beauty of a horse mane that billows around the riders hands as it leaps over hurdles in a graceful gallop. Interestingly enough, we get to experience simpler moments that we are all perhaps more familiar with: playing catch with an excited dog, a father twirling his daughter by the arm, and an airline passenger rushing through an airport to catch ones flight. But the first few times you watch this video, you don't really notice the distinction between the grand and the ordinary, do you? 

Why is that? 

Part of it is the production. The music**, the cuts from sweeping, green mountain landscapes to crowded city streets lined with yellow cabs, the sound effects of laughter, plane engines, and gasps of breath all do a great job of contributing to the general message of the video. That message, the take-away for the viewer, is: life is happening everywhere to everyone and it is beautiful. A talented producer can take whatever material the camera catches and draw out the details hidden within the shot to magnify the beauty in even the most mundane of images or videos. That is why events like an epic sky-dive and a tranquil afternoon picnic in the park can coexist seamlessly in media such as the video above.

**("New Lipstick" by The Kissaway Trail in case you're interested)

But the other contributing factor to the deceptive quality of this life-collage is a deeper, existential one. Think for a moment about how you want others to perceive you and your life. What do you want them to see? Hear? Experience?

Are the scenes that arise in your mind raw, un-doctored snapshots of life as it is or was? Or are they stylized to some degree? Polished? In motion? Slow motion? Set to a soundtrack? If so, then I can assure you that you are not alone.

Just take a look at the content social media enables us to share: Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and Youtube are filled pictures and videos of everything from half-eaten burritos styled in gorgeous, sepia coloration to cliff-diving escapades shot in HD (or 3D) in first-person perspective with a sweeping orchestral soundtrack. What's happening on social media isn't new. Ever since we've had the printing press, photo albums (the physical ones that weigh 200 pounds), and home-recording, people have been sharing snapshots of their life with the world. The same principal is there; the only thing that has changed over time is the technology with which to carry it out.

So what does this mean?

People want to live meaningful lives. We want our lives to be captivating, enchanting, and breath-taking to a watching audience.

Whatever form of content we choose to share with the world, the "likes", comments, and subscribers almost seem to function as a way of validating the author. It's a way of saying, "Someone else thinks this is meaningful too." This system can be strongly encouraging and supportive, fostering life-appreciation amongst a broad community.

But the truly great thing about all of this is: Life is already meaningful whether it is on camera or not. Meaningful moments are happening everywhere, all the time, and all around you.

Donald Miller is an author I respect and he writes and speaks on God, life, and the elements of story. In general, his message is that God wants to write a story with your life. I agree. If you think about it, life is written like a story. It has a beginning, an end, conflict, resolution, themes, and a variety of dynamic characters.

Sometimes capturing a moment on camera (or a blog...) is the best way to understand part of the story. But the camera exists for the story, not the other way around.

Camera or no camera, blog or no blog, Facebook or no Facebook: what's your story?

Fear Isn't

Like a pot of boiling water with no flame beneath

Like a hiding child with no ghosts to be seen

Like free-falling within a dream

Fear is only fear

Like a knocking with no one at the door

Like the thought of drowning on a sandy shore

Like loneliness when real love is yours

Fear is only fear

Like a question when an answer is there

Like a soldier of imagined warfare

Like furrowed thoughts perceived as a glare

Fear is only fear

Like shadows seen through the mist

Like rustled leaves in the wind's hiss

Like something that does not exist

Fear is only fear

Trains and Music: "August Train" by Justin King

Please note the you'll need to be logged into Spotify to listen to the song through the player above. If you don't have an account (there is a free version), you can sign up for one by clicking here. If the player above is not working, you can find the song by clicking here. Please also use this link if you are viewing this post via an email subscription, as the player is not visible in email format. 

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The song above is a great example of the kind of mellow, acoustic instrumentals you will find all throughout Justin King's album "Le Bleu". I don't know much about Justin King except that he is both a talented photographer and guitarist whose work is composed with a broad palette of technical skill and writing capability. This album has something to offer as both background music for the listeners who are busy working on other things or foreground music for the concentrated enthusiast. 

Aside from the disarming and relaxing qualities of this particular song, and others like it, one aspect that I particularly enjoy is the imagery. There are no lyrics so the title is the only direct image we are given: August Train. After that, who knows what scenes or emotions the listener will experience? Some may interpret this song as joyful while others may not. Some may picture a city subway commute while others may imagine a locomotive slowly winding through vast country hills, an angular trail of white clouds billowing from the smokestack. Some may wonder about where the train is heading or where it is coming from, whether you as the listener are a passenger on this train or an outside observer, and what the significance of August is. Whatever the case, the song is as interactive as you would like it to be. 

One interesting aspect about this song that I would like to ponder is the train. There are many common themes that show up in all sorts of songs throughout history: love, conflict, heart-break, resolution, victory, friendships, social commentary, etcetera. Within those themes the song-writers have a wealth of imagery with which to convey those themes. I find that trains have made an appearance in songs from a variety of genres and time-periods. From old-time folk songs like "The Wabash Cannonball", to the modern "Southbound Train" by Switchfoot front-man Jon Foreman the analogy continues to stand the test of time.

What is it about trains that provide such potent, long-standing vessels for conveying meaning? It was an understandable metaphor back in the early 19th and 20th centuries when trains were the primary, relatively new and exciting mode of transportation. That's not so much the case today as cars and airplanes have taken over that arena, but trains are remain a familiar reference point for songwriters and their audiences.

Why?

There are a few things we can infer: The experience of being alive implies motion. Life chugs along the rails of time at a set pace that feels slow at times and alarmingly fast at others. Trains are also driven by an exclusive group of conductors and populated by a broad group of passengers. Generally speaking, the vast majority of the audience listening to writers that employ train devices in their work has had way more experience being a train passenger as opposed to a train conductor. While passengers can freely conduct themselves within the train, they can do nothing to control its speed or direction. They feel and respond the rumblings of the train as it climbs over the tracks, watching fellow passengers arriving and departing as well as the scenery that scrolls by the window.

Is the art of living not like that? Don't we, at times, feel the sharp contrast between the few things we can control and those that we cannot when we feel the jolts of life climbing through the rocky terrain of transitions, losses, and adjustments? Don't we sometimes wish we were the conductor so that we could change the pace, the scenery, the direction of things? On the other hand, what a ride this is. What a wonder it is to be taken to places you never would have imagined. What blessings are some of those special, unexpected details of life that enter as subtly as a passenger climbing aboard and sitting next to us yet leave us indelibly changed forever.

These are observations, emotions, and reflections that come to everyone in due time. These are the questions that are shrouded in story and mystery. In other words, these are the ingredients for great songs. Think of a song that is particularly meaningful to you. What makes it meaningful? The memories it stirs? Nameless emotions that are at once so hard to describe in words yet are perfectly framed by the music? The lyrical content that seems to have been written about your own personal experience?

I think it is safe to say that all writers want to connect with their audience to some degree.

It honestly doesn't take much.

Sometimes it is as simple as turning to your fellow passenger with a song, story, conversation, or even a simple smile that says, "What a ride."

The Lessons We Keep

I met Mr. Hopkins in my senior year of high school. He was my english teacher. He worked in a small town, lived a big life, and taught me how to do the same.

I attended a small high school in the suburbs of south shore Massachusetts. I remember reading a student record of mine that gave statistics at the top of the page, in humble typewriter print, indicating my academic ranking within a graduating class of 149 students. In college, when friends from Texas told me they attended schools with multiple thousands of students (and theirs being one of several equally-sized schools in their district), they may as well have told me that they graduated from Disney World. 

Growing up in a small town without anyone from the outside telling you its a small town can weird-en and romanticize your perception of what a big town is like. I thought living in a city must be exactly like living on the set of Sesame Street; every street corner filled with colorful characters who are ready to drop whatever they are doing and burst into song, teach a math or grammar lesson, or go on a scavenger hunt for items that begin with the letter "M". I wanted to move to Boston (conveniently close to where we already lived) or Tokyo (inconveniently on the other side of the world but hopefully just as whimsical as all the anime cartoons I used to watch made it seem). I wanted to revel in big-town, city magic on a daily basis. Seeing that I was oblivious to the logistical and financial complexities of such a feat, my parents tried to reason with me. 

Needless to say, my family did not uproot itself from the familiarity of careers, neighbors, and ways of living to be transplanted into the urban unknown just so I could live on Sesame Street. I was forlorn. When my brother moved to Boston for college, it was as though a former inmate were walking into the horizon as a free man while I watched from behind the bars of my cell window. I resigned to what felt like a life-time of small town labor, riding the same old bus down the same old streets to the same old schools I had known, and where I had been known for so long. As I grew older, I would acquire a yearning to go where I had not yet been, meet people who did not yet know me, and to let the prologue to my adulthood be written on a fresh page, a full page-turn away from the chapters of childhood, before a brand new audience.

Don't get me wrong, my hometown was a great place to grow up. It was a loving, supportive community and I love going back there to visit. But the leaf of many a teenage soul often feels periods of resentment for the stabilizing stem that keeps it from flying away in the tantalizing winds of change. It wasn't until my senior year of high school, when one, long, eternal year stood between me and my freedom, that a seed would be planted that had the power to enliven whatever landscape I found myself treading in the future, big or small. 

Mr. Hopkins initially strikes the observer as an unassuming, scholarly gentleman. His bespectacled, bright-eyed countenance, complete with a button-down shirt and the occasional bow-tie betray the comedically styled, zestfully proclaimed, dramatized lessons that often characterized his classes.

"I would give my right-arm to write a line like that!" he blurted to the class after analyzing a passage from a poem written in olde-english form about a rather uneventful winter sled ride through the woods. He stood wide-eyed with his right arm turned upright, fist clenched, and left-index finger quiveringly pointing to his elbow joint, as if eagerly showing a prepping surgeon the generous length of arm he was willing to have amputated in exchange for the poetic finesse in reference.

His small teacher's podium was often quite inadequate to contain him. He gripped its sides, reeling his tall upper-frame around to look every single one of us directly in the eyes when making a philosophical point, paced to and fro well beyond its borders, arms flailing in excited exclamations over rich texts, and slapped its weary surface when bursting into laughter over a veiled, scholarly joke from a reading that sailed over the heads of his students.

Although Mr. Hopkins could put on quite a show by himself, it was impossible to remain an observer for long. This man had a way of galvanizing his students with irresistible opportunities to take leaps of faith and face one's demons. Said faith-leaping assumed many forms: class-readings in which the reader was required to use an accent, personal poetry delivered standing, not sitting, behind the ragged podium in front of everyone (tears were shed at times), and being graded on our ability to not only recite Hamlet's soliloquy from memory but to dramatically portray it with whatever acting ability we could muster. Ordinary classroom life became extraordinary.

If those examples leave you unconvinced, consider the context: a roomful of teenagers who are trying to play it cool in front of each other all the time doing things that could shatter that self-projection into billions of pieces in a single instant. He was a master of chiseling holes through the walls that so many teenagers use to conceal their authentic selves and inviting them to come out of hiding. Often in the moment, I couldn't stand the intrusion. I was a quiet, timid kid in high school. Although I am naturally introverted, my timidity was a mask I learned to wear in my early days in order to stay out of trouble with teachers for whom I had a reverent yet irrational fear. Later in life the timidity morphed into neutral, observational silence. I thought it made me seem like the smart, thoughtful, "mysterious" type of guy that you either wanted to be buddies with or wanted to leave alone because he might know kung fu.

Mr. Hopkins confused my internal programming like a computer glitch, making me uncomfortably aware of just how suffocating that mask was. No longer would I be able to get by in class by playing hide-and-don't-seek. On certain days, an otherwise routine class activity would turn into the opportunity to stand out, be unique, and lift the veil that shrouded our authentic selves. But sometimes I just wanted to stay in my seat, take notes, curl into a ball behind my walls, and tighten the straps on my mask, thank you very much.

One day I cinched those straps so tight that they burst.

It was mid-winter and I had a busy day ahead of me. I was a member of the school band and had an off-site audition later that day for a music festival. I would be dismissed early from English class. That morning I ran down the hall to Mr. Hopkins room, my snare drum strapped to my back and the tapping of my black dress shoes echoing down the hallways lined with navy blue lockers. I came into the room as my classmates were still settling into their desks and pulled Mr. Hopkins aside. He looked down at me unflinchingly, as he always did, with a gaze that seemed to pierce through veneer, mortar, and brick. I dared to make eye-contact every few words as I mumbled:

"I have an audition today...I'll have to leave early...at about 10:45."

Immediately his hand thumped on my shoulder and he spoke in the determined, hurried tones of one who was about to remove his balancing hands from a child learning to ride a bike:

"Ok, now here's what I'll want you to do: I want you to get up in a huff. I want you to get mad, tell me that you can't take it anymore, and then storm out of the room."

Somewhere in the depths of my torso someone had lit a fire and was pouring gasoline in ever-widening circles around it. Right before the smoke came billowing out of every orifice on my mortified face, I clamped down the mask, gave a crooked smile, and chuckled "Heh! OK."

With a final nod and clap on the back he dismissed me to my seat.

Although I only had 30-minutes until my dismissal, the fabric of time itself must have been in the wash because those minutes stretched, pulled, lingered, and faded into hours. The clock pounded out every one of the 1,800 second-hand ticks like a canon in slow-motion, heralding the coming of my fight-or-flight performance, inviting every one of my inner critics to take a front-row seat.

The time-warp ended at 10:44. All senses came piercing into my consciousness like shards of glass.
A multitude of voices were muttering frantically in each ear as they flew through cost-benefit analyses, risk assessments, and weighed the scales of my choices.

Should I do it or not? Will I overdo it and offend him? Will people think I'm cool? What am I supposed to do after I storm out? Do I come back and tell everyone its a joke? I sort of want to do this but I'm not used to being the kind of guy that does this sort of thing. Maybe I can just let it slide and leave. WHAT DO I DO?!

My eyeballs bounced back and forth in their sockets as they screamed for my attention. They were yelling over each other.

When a space-time anomaly leaves you with only one minute to diffuse an existential bomb strapped to your socially protective shell, you might end up snipping both wires at once in your haste to choose only one.

It was 10:45.

"MR. HOPKINS!"

It stumbled out of my mouth like an unexpected belch.

The buzz of the classroom screeched to a halt and he, hunched in conversation with a classmate, turned to me with the wide-eyes of an actor awaiting his cue. My monotone drone was discordantly accompanied by my nervous bursts of volume and meek quavers of uncertainty:

"I...HAVE TO...go"

He didn't move. I was running late now for the audition. I had to finish it. The rest of my script drifted cautiously into the air like a balloon fizzing out of helium:

"I can't take it anymore Mr. Hopkins"

Snip. 

Boom.

A shrill and questioning chuckle darted through the class. He breathed a heavy sigh, his shoulders falling, then rising as he lifted his weary head. Masterfully working the whole charade into part of an act that accommodated my faltered offering and kept the show going, he played along. Tiredly proclaiming my status as an incorrigible and out-of-control student before the class, he dismissed me to the audition with a smile.

I will never know what would have happened had I gone for the act with all my might. But I am glad for what did happen: Before I knew it I was walking down the hallway, red-faced and out of breath. The heavy wooden door closed behind me. Internally, I pulled at the straps of my mask in anguish. I tied them in knots and with every step pulled them tighter and tighter. By the time I was out of the building and on the bus, the knot had burst from the strain. The mask hung in tatters. The bus pulled out of the driveway. A refreshing breeze billowed in through the now gaping hole in my brick wall. Through it, I stared back at the classroom window on the second story as it faded into the distance.

____________________

That was not the end. It wasn't even the beginning. I had been given the chance to sink or swim before I was a student in Mr. Hopkins' class. Sometimes I sank. Sometimes I swam. There were many more opportunities to come in that class and beyond as well where those results were repeated.

But the unique thing that Mr. Hopkins did for me is that he made those opportunities so exciting. He could present you with a challenge that seemed at once so frightening and yet so within your reach that you knew you would be cheating yourself if you didn't go for it with all that you've got. He also made you know, beyond any doubt, that he was in your corner cheering you on as you made the ordinary hum-drum of life extraordinary and explored the limits of what you were capable of.

Whenever life seems to lose some color and I'm tempted to put my mask back on and fade into the background of routine, the lessons I've learned from people like Mr. Hopkins come back to haunt me.

Do something. Be you. Seize this ordinary moment and make it extraordinary.

What will happen if you don't? Nothing.

What will happen if you do? There's only one way to find out.

Who is Tom Bombadil?

"Don't you know my name yet?...Eldest, that's what I am. Mark my words, my friends: Tom was here before the river and the trees; Tom remembers the first raindrop and the first acorn. He made paths before the Big People, and saw the little People arriving. He was here before the Kings and the graves and the Barrow-wights. When the Elves passed westward, Tom was here already, before the seas were bent. He knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless..."

- The Fellowship of the Ring, "In the House of Tom Bombadil", by J.R.R. Tolkien

____________________

The Lord of the Rings is a household term nowadays the evokes solemn, earthy images of the sweeping landscapes of J.R.R. Tolkien's literary epic. Search far and wide and you will scarcely encounter someone who has not at least heard of the tale and become familiar with its raw ingredients: hobbits, elves, Gandalf, Gollum, 'taters, and a ring whose veiled and all-consuming power is matched only by the thirst of those who scour Middle Earth to find it.

In the early 2000's Peter Jackson bore the mantle of transferring Tolkien's written volume of poems, tales, and battles into a sweeping visual landscape that, in my opinion (which comes having read the books after watching the movies...ready your grains of salt), mirrors the books quite masterfully. Surprisingly, I have yet to meet anyone that has been dissatisfied with the film renditions.

Of course there are creative liberties, additions, and omissions in the movie that are not true to the book. But a movie that repeats a book verbatim would be a serious technical challenge and would not honestly make much sense. An author has an arsenal of pages with which to create the atmosphere for the story, introduce characters, display character development, and give you the time to decide if you want to accept the invitation to enter the world unfolding before you. Not so with a film production crew. An audience sitting in a theater has already responded to that invitation and they are waiting for the party to start.

And that's what brings me to the excerpt above and the character in question: Tom Bombadil. Who (or what) is Tom Bombadil? Bear in mind this is not an easy question to answer. The most straightforward answer is:

Tom Bombadil is a yellow-booted, blue-coated, red-bearded, husky fellow who sings, dances, rescues the Hobbits from a hungry tree, a barrow-wight (nasty little creatures they), and provides them with weaponry. He is only seen once in the first book of the LOTR trilogy yet is mentioned several times throughout, including a reference by Gandalf at the end of the third.

The more complex answer is:

No one really knows.

He seems to possess great power within his territory in the Old Forest just east of the Shire where the adventure begins. With his songs and rhymes he is able to rescue the Hobbits from a living willow tree and revive Merry and Pippin from paralysis. He refers to himself as "The Master" in his songs. He claims to be "Eldest," to have seen the "first raindrop and the first acorn," and to have essentially witnessed the creation of the world and its peoples. While he is knowledgeable of the world beyond his forest, he seems oddly and humorously detached from it. When asked to see the ring for which the series is named, and for which wars have been fought, friends have been turned against each other, and noble men have been driven to paranoid madness, Frodo hands it right over to him without hesitation. Tom plays with the ring like a child as he, looks through it like a monocle, puts it on his little finger (astonishingly without becoming invisible; one of its involuntary effects on the wearer), flips it into the air, and makes it vanish like a magic trick, only to hand it back to a frozen-hearted Frodo. Tom can also still see Frodo when he wears the ring, though Frodo is invisible to everyone else. He is apparently immune to the power and allure of the ring though it stirs the world around him into chaos. He never becomes involved in the unfolding events of the series. For all we know, he remains in his forest, happily gathering water lilies for his equally mysterious wife.

And he is nowhere to be found in the movie. Nary a mention of his name.

What?

Twice saving the Hobbits from danger? Providing them with the weapons they would use throughout the series? That sounds like legitimate movie content.

Nothing. Not even a summarizing flash-back sequence or deleted-scene on the DVD set.

Why not?

You can read articles about how Peter Jackson felt that Tom's character does not help to advance the greater plot at work throughout the story. Remember the constraint that is assumed for films compared to books? It was a rational decision. The story could logically still exist without Tom in it. Films are extremely expensive to produce and it isn't cost-effective to pour money into writing, rehearsing, shooting, and editing scenes that won't add layers to the plot. Audiences are still swept away by the movies without Tom.

And readers are still swept away by the books with Tom and all his mystery and unexplained nature. I believe what makes the Lord of the Ring's trilogy so captivating is that Tolkien does such a great job of conveying to the reader that Middle Earth is an immense, vast landscape that is full of knowledge and history that could be gained if one would only choose to study it further. He constructed a literary world that seems real, in a sense, because it is so diverse and richly detailed. He even created a few languages while he was at it.

To me, this setting feels much more believable because Tom is a part of it. I like the fact that he is unexplained. As Tolkien himself wrote in a letter, "...there must be some enigmas...Tom is one (intentionally)."** His enigmatic presence adds to the greater atmosphere of an already mysterious Middle Earth. Yet even Tolkien himself wasn't spared from being questioned about the character. In a separate letter, he justified Tom's existence in the book by saying, "...I kept him in, and as he was, because he represents certain things otherwise left out."** I read that to mean that there are elements that only Tom Bombadil with all his quirks, oddities, and obscure powers could bring to the story.
** Quotes from "The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, numbers 144 and 153, dated 1954. Gathered from http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/t/tombombadil.html

Don't we live lives like that? When sketching the life-trail we've followed on our maps, sometimes we look back at certain 'diversions' and wonder, "What in the world did that have to do with anything?" Fill-in-the-blank for whatever that may be in your own words. It could be a city you lived in briefly, a job you took that didn't seem to lead anywhere, a friendship that seemed to have come out of the blue, or your interest in the mysteries of quantum physics. Whatever fills your blank, it happened and you lived it. It is part of your story. What impact did it leave on you? What questions do you still have about it? Like Middle Earth, I appreciate the fact that there are things out there in this world that are majestically above my comprehension.

I remember reading an article that discussed the importance of avoiding "Tom Bombadils" in story-writing; removing elements that halted rather than progressed the progression of the plot. That's an understandable perspective from a technique standpoint. However, I think our life stories are full of Bombadils and while we shouldn't confuse them with the main plot, they each have a little something to add. After all, the Hobbits didn't stay with Tom for long. They had a mission to accomplish. Yet they begged him to travel with them but he declined and sang his way out of their story, gracefully parting as uniquely as he came, leaving them all the better for it.

If we try to edit our lives such that we forsake the Bombadils of our past and avoid them at all costs in the future, how far would we go before we realize we would be cutting out some very important material? Life is a book, not a movie. Sure there may be a few Hollywood moments, but it is largely a world where growth and development happens in elongated increments. There is room for the Bombadils. Trying to align all the details in our life with what makes 'sense' to us might steer us clear of some important relationships and life-altering experiences.

When we look at the map of our life and see those head-scratching Bombadils scattered throughout our past and even in the present, see what they have to offer. Some things are meant to be mysteries. We don't get the answer to every question we ask in this life. That doesn't mean we shouldn't try at all to find the answers. But if it turns out that all we can do in the end is wonder and be amazed at how high, deep, and wide things are in life, don't be disappointed.

____________________

Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,

Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.

None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the master:

His songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster

- The Fellowship of the Ring, "Fog on the Barrow Downs" by J.R.R. Tolkien

Wake up!

Wake up! Today could be the best day yet!

See the light peeking through your shades? Arise! Let fly those nylon barriers and let the bed-room of your soul experience the pain and the joy of the birth of today.

No more the soft comforts of pillows!

No more the idle warmth of those womb-like blankets!

Let sleep give what it can deliver yet not rob what it could take.

"Come!" beckons creation around you. "Come forth and seize life. Gently flee from sleep and fiercely smuggle the dreams of night into the living day."

The sun will invite but will not command
For preserving free will, God does demand
The invited in question may surely respond
With a ready embrace or a shrug and a yawn
For the greatest of days, the embracer may find
Or the greatest of days, may the sleeper decline
So come, seize life, before it is past!
Awake! Rise now, while the invite still lasts!

Bob Ross - Trust, bravery, life

It was Friday afternoon. I rode the school bus home, feeling the weight of a hectic week tugging at my eyelids and while the joy of the weekend glowed in my chest. When I got off at my street, I moved wearily towards my house in the distance, hunched under the yolk of my backpack, feet dragging against the gravel. Reaching the house, I lumbered through the front door, shuffled off my bag, and collapsed on the couch with a remote in my hands while the television buzzed to life. It was a hard week full of homework, projects, after-school activities, and the like. But it was no matter; I was in my sanctuary, it was Friday, and Bob Ross was on TV painting a serene river that would carry the weight of the world away. 

Bob Ross might not need any introduction. His series "The Joy of Painting", signature afro, and calming voice are defining characteristics of the '80s and '90s. From what I've read, Bob used to be in the Air Force and it was there that he developed a painting technique that allowed him to quickly finish highly-detailed paintings on work-breaks. Watch any episode and you will be amazed at how suddenly the canvas comes to life, like Polaroid photo developing into focus. 

I do not paint. I do not draw. I have tried. After comparing my recent artwork to those I produced in first grade and finding nary a difference, I have surmised that such skills come naturally to some and not to others. 

In Middle School, I did not watch the show to be inspired by Bob's artistic mastery. Honestly, I just found the soothing combination of his voice, gentle demeanor, and the hush of paintbrushes on canvas to have the same effect as getting a back-massage. You may experience the same effect in the video above. 

About a week ago, I rediscovered Bob Ross. I was on YouTube and discovered that Bob's company now posts entire episodes online. I was having trouble sleeping that night so I decided to try listening to an episode with headphones in an attempt to doze off. It didn't quite work but nonetheless I am glad to have made the rediscovery because I began to notice something:

Watching a painter at work is an exercise in trust. So is being alive. 

With a small array of colors, brushes, and a knife, Bob will approach a prepared canvas and begin creating very simple shapes; a line, a blot of color, an arc. He'll work around or within that shape by tapping, pressing, or swirling the brush in a technique that blends color and creates texture. Within minutes, that simple shape has developed into a tree with aged bark, a wreath of shrubbery, or the curved bank of a river. As an example, watch the transformation of the tree from 5:34 to 9:17 in the video above. 

The process will continue as more life is added to the canvas in a collection of simplicity that grows into complex detail. Just when the painting seems to be reaching the apex of its beauty, something tragic happens: a smear of mismatched color is streaked down the middle or an unsightly shape invades the portrait, obscuring the details in the background. Just begin watching the video above at 11:25 and just see if you can keep yourself from clenching your fists and shouting, "STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" as Bob calmly smears not one, not two, but four massive, thick, vertical black lines straight through the middle of a gorgeous forest scene and encourages us to "be brave" while we helplessly watch the destruction. 

But don't stop there. Keep watching. By 14:57 those gargantuan obstructions begin to make sense. By 21:00, as Bob adds the final touches, the shapes have morphed into a tree grove in the foreground, framing the background detail, adding depth to the painting, and inviting the viewer to step into the canvas and explore. By the end, the painting "needs" the tree grove; without it, something very precious would be missing. Should the canvas not have endured the momentary disruption, it's beauty would have been incomplete. 

As the viewer, I have to trust that Bob knows what he's going to do with the simple shapes and questionable additions he'll add as the work goes on. Something will come of it, to be sure, but the process of getting to that point can be a nerve-wracking experience as an audience member. "Be brave."

Being alive is no different. Life is a canvas on which God paints beauty in all of its colors: light, dark, and in-between. Things that start of simply explode into meaningful depth: hobbies become life-long passions, jobs become careers, acquaintances become enduring companionships. All are details that make the most sense in perspective of the whole portrait. When isolated, they might not make much sense.

What about the unformed tree groves in life? What about the big, thick, vertical lines of things that clash down like prison bars, smearing over the beauty, comfort, and sensible details of our lives? Why does life feel passion-less? Why did the business fail? Why was the friendship severed? Whatever your questions are, there are no easy answers. They might remain dark, shapeless, and colorless for days, weeks, months, years. There is no shame in feeling the pain or the sorrow that comes. But the painting is not done yet. 

Don't give up. 

Keep watching.

"Be brave."

Afraid in the dark

The trail danced through shrubs and tree groves in a path that seemed to be modeled after the flight pattern of a butterfly. Broad palettes of colorful flowers were spread over the terrain while cloud shadows slowly marched over the terrain like lofty guardians patrolling their territory. I produced my map and began jotting the trail curves as I went, lest I forget the playful turns I had been rounding. 

After a half-mile, the soft grass and vibrant flowers faded to a rocky and muddy terrain, as if the grand paintbrush that enlivened the land had streaked out of color at the end of a long stroke. The trail gave a few more mischievous twists around some boulders before becoming soberly straight as it brought me down into a small valley. Clouds were gathering in the sky as though they found something of interest down below and had called to some friends to bear witness. Though it was midday, the daylight dimmed as I entered a canopy of leaves and branches. Seizing the light that remained, I looked down to sketch the latest developments in the trail on the map; the scratching of my pencil and the windblown leaves whispering to each other as I worked. 

Taking a glance over the top of the paper, I froze as my gaze followed the trail for a few more paces before colliding with a wall of rock interrupted by a round void of darkness: A cave swallowed the trail and its mouth waited in hunger for me. I looked back at the map and saw former portions of my path that were drawn straight for a length and then suddenly diverted, sometimes for miles, in wide arcs to avoid passing through previous caves and features of this kind. 

However, something was different this time. I wanted to follow this trail. I wanted to draw a straight line on my map. 

I pocketed the map and approached the cave. The wind, whispering moments before, was amplified into a low, damp breath as it heaved out of the mouth. I stooped to peer into the cavern and saw a pinprick of daylight at the end; a solitary star in a void of space. The invisible fist gripping my chest loosed a little and I took one last look about me; around me all was cold and gray, before me was darkness, ahead of me was life. I took a breath, entered the cave, and pursued it. 

____________________

I slept with the hall-light on until I was in middle school. My door and one eye were always wide-open while the 3,000 candle-power hallway light cast its all-protecting lumens in a circle bright enough to give a mole cataracts. I don't know what age I was when this stopped but I was old enough to feel self-conscious about it and question if I was breaking some unspoken rule regarding age-mandated sleeping environments. 

I received a response to this question by a classmate in computer class. We sitting side by side on old computers that were cutting edge at the time and are probably now used only by non-conformist grandparents who need email and IT personnel who need an over-sized doorstop. The program we were using was a "get-better-at-typing" game that displayed a computer keyboard and a pair of beautiful translucent hands that were purple and poised perfectly over the keys like the fingers of a master pianist. My hands were not purple and resembled chickens sifting through the keyboard for grain, pecking each key sporadically with gangly index-finger necks that protruded from my fists.

Amid the uncoordinated tic-tac sound of 7th graders learning how to type for the first time, I contemplated my plight. Half of me was tethered to the nightlight with cords of fear while the other half was being pulled into darkness by chains of shame. I wanted neither. Despite the years of protection I had received under the nightlight, I began to resent it and the need I felt for it. I also resented the notion of sleeping in the dark. Whose idea was it anyway to create a culture of fairy tales, nursery rhymes, and movie trailers on daytime television that are rife with images of horrors that lurk in the dark, feed them into the sponge-like minds of society's children, and then shame them for finding it difficult to sleep comfortably in the shapeless void where terror and madness lie in wait around every unseen corner? I felt as though I was expected to justify myself before a jury for breathing oxygen. My nightlight was not only rational, it was a basic living essential. If I had the proper legal authority at the time, I would have written an 11th Amendment declaring it illegal for anyone to question, criticize, or cock their eyebrows at one's use of a nightlight.

Surely I was not the only level-headed thinker around. I decided to take this question to the authorities; to have them examine the illogical case being brought against me and boldly declare before the watching world that I was firmly in the right and should be spared any judgment or critique under penalty of being poked in the ribs.

I conveniently had access to such an authority in the 12-year old classmate next to me who was picking his ear with the pinky finger of one hand while limply swatting his keyboard with the other.

This was my big chance. I was ready. I was going to accomplish two things in the ensuing conversation:

• First thing: Shuffle off the burden of hiding my nightlight dependency, thus kicking that nagging shame in the mouth. 
• Second thing: Receive validation from a trusted source regarding how difficult it is to overcome said dependency...and maybe even permission to stop trying to overcome it because nobody else was bothering to try either. 

My mission was clear and my arguments were sound. I chuckled to myself as I imagined how I would strut out of the classroom with victory under my belt. Maybe I would purse my lips to one side, throwing my shoulders with each exaggerated step, winking and pointing at the cool kids with both index fingers.

I assessed the tools I had available to me with which I would build the discussion. The conversational orbit between pre-teen boys is a selectively small one and tends to gravitate around the following:

• Video games
• Pokémon
• Video games about Pokémon
• Things pre-teen boys think are stupid

This last category is by far the most frequented subject of choice among conversing youngsters. It's content is updated almost by the minute, ensuring that all participants can contribute something to the discussion. Entire friendships have been forged and broken on its grounds. Aware of this risk, I threw caution to the stuffy classroom wind and offered a cordial invitation to discourse:

"Dude, you know what's stupid?"

His response dripped with the enthusiasm of an eager participant:

"Uh?"

Without trying, I was able to conjure up a list of items to discuss and I was sure my classmate would agree. I would build his approval from the ground up, starting with the small things like lockers and algebra while masterfully building a rapport that could handle the nightlight issue. I could do it. I would do it. The time was now:

Me:        "Whaddya think about those lockers?"
Dude:     "Man, I can never open mine! Like, do I turn the dial left, right, left, left? Or left, right left,                   right?"
Me:        "Seriously! And what about algebra? Like, whose idea was it to mix-up numbers and the
                alphabet like that?"
Dude:     "I know right?! If you ask me, I think whoever thought of that should sit on a porcupine!"
Me:        "Yeah! And you know what else is a pain in the butt? Still not bein' able to sleep with the
                light off at 12 years old!"
Dude:     "I hear you brother! With a blanky and teddy bear to boot!"
Me:        "You know it!"
Both:     <Fist bumps while making exploding sounds with our mouths>

This is the script that was playing on repeat in my head while we were talking. It came to a startling halt like a needle being jerked off of a spinning record right about the time when I realized my classmate and I weren't on the same page about how confusing algebra was at its core:

Dude:     "Algebra's not hard at all man. I think pretty easy."
Me:         <frozen mid-sentence with index finger in the air as though once making a great point>
Dude:     "You don't?

Something was wrong. That wasn't on the script. In my brain, there were red lights flashing and sirens wailing while little versions of me scrambled around looking for a response, rifling through filing cabinets, and frantically flipping through databases to find a response that would get us back on track.

Me:        "So uh...I've always slept...with the hallway light on and...I um...still haven't gotten used to
                sleeping with it off"
Dude:     <staring blankly back at me>
Me:        "Um..." <cough> "Stinks, right?"
Dude:     ...
Me:        "...know what I'm talkin' 'bout?"

He kept staring at me while the purple hands on his computer screen were frozen in sharp contortions, as though they too had heard my secret and were in shock. After what felt like three-and-a-half days of silence, the corners of his lips began to curl and his eyes narrowed at their edges. I saw the tips of his teeth emerge in a cursive smile. He seemed to be assessing my situation as a lion casually considers the parts of a trapped gazelle he should like to nibble on first. All at the same time, the classroom slowly became a courtroom; either side of me surrounded by a jury of fellow students who tic-tac'd away on court-logs that were recording every detail of my depraved lack of coolness. His eyes flashed and I knew that he, as the judge, had come to his conclusion and was ready to pronounce his judgment. The lion was ready to pounce. The guillotine was about to drop. My pupils shrunk to pin-pricks; I could see nothing and was left only with ears that would not cease to hear both my pounding heart and the sentence heaved at me with a mocking, "poor baby" tone of voice:

"Aw poor Andy, can't sleep without a nightlight?"

The courtroom disappeared. The judge and jury disappeared. The purple hands disappeared. Everything evaporated in an instant and I was in a black, formless vacuum. It was as though I had been preserved during a split-second rupture in the space-time continuum that sucked away the earth, the stars, the universe itself, and left me in its wake.

There is no air in space but apparently there is sound. Every inch of the expanse around me echoed with "can't sleep without a nightlight" in haunting, mock voices that were speaking, singing, chanting, whispering, and wailing like a crazed choir of inmates. The sinister song reverberated over and over like an eternal record on loop.

Back in reality, my classmates had filed out of the room and it was time to go to lunch. I drifted out behind them like a wide-eyed toad on a lily pad being dragged about by a lazy current, carelessly bumping into things without flinching. The existential void of never-ending woe has a way of making you impervious to outside stimuli.

The darkness and the voices eventually faded away but I probably spent the rest of the day in a distant fog with a drooping jaw and a billion-mile gaze: cemented in the cafeteria, oblivious to the chaos-jungle of middle school behind me; glued to the bus seat like a dashboard bobble-head; frozen at the dinner table while my family gently placed french fries and chicken nuggets in my mouth, smearing in mashed potatoes as an adhesive if they fell out.

This isn't exactly the picture I want to leave you with. You might say that this day was not my day. I wasn't exactly on my A-game so-to-speak. Good grief, out of the vast encyclopedia of awesomeness I've been the cause of <cough> why in the world would I share this excerpt with you? The truth is, things changed that day. They didn't end then but they changed. That's what this is all about. Sometimes I think God withholds the eraser on "bad" days in our life chapters because they change us. Remember how my fear of the dark dictated so much of my sleeping and waking life? Remember how desperately I sought my classmate's validation? That pillar of anxiety lost a chip in its foundation that day. It took a while for the next chip to fall but it fell more easily than the first. Each one after that came more easily and more quickly than those before. As the years went by it shrunk, crumbled, and lost its power. The debris left-over from its destruction still clutters my life at times but its slowly being blown away in the breeze.

That night, I climbed the stairs while the hall-light watched. It's electric glow and hum always seemed so warm, inviting, trustworthy. This time it buzzed and turned angry shades in a way I never noticed before, like a jilted bully whose target has become deaf to their taunts. I reached the top of the stairs and stared back. I smiled, dragged the dimmer switch to reduce the raging light to a dull glow, and got ready for bed.  

Meeting needs with gladness: "Albertine" by Brooke Fraser

Please note the you'll need to be logged into Spotify to listen to the song through the player above. If you don't have an account (there is a free version), you can sign up for one by clicking here. If the player above is not working, you can find the song by clicking here.

Listening to Brooke Fraser's music is like listening to a masterfully written book. The author knows how to engage the senses of the audience that they may see, taste, and feel what is being described. Just about every song I've ever heard by Brooke is flowing with imagery, symbolism, and hidden meaning that might not reveal itself until the 20th time that I've listened to the song. 

Listening to Brooke's music is a journey because you will never hear the same thing twice. Just check out her first album, What to do with Daylight. Listening to that album is like hearing the same singer on a set of different songs while you flip through the radio. The album is impossible to categorize because it transitions from pop to reggae to RnB seamlessly. 

There are many details about Brooke's songwriting that stand out. For me, those qualities are the instrumental production (how the instruments and voices play their parts and are recorded) and the lyrics. 

Let's start with the instruments: If you have ever aspired to play an instrument, sing, write songs, or become a music producer, you will find a worthy challenge and inspiration in this music. There are so many musical 'moments' throughout these songs that make seasoned musicians go "mmm" and wrinkle their face as though savoring a sophisticated hors d'oeuvre at a party where people wear monocles and handle-bar mustaches. Yet this musical intelligence is accessible; no degrees, special vocabulary, or monocles required (though a handle-bar mustache is helpful in every context). I may listen to a song and conclude only that I "like the guitar part," while a group of fancy-pants music students might describe their love for the "harmonic and stylistic interpretation by the guitarist," but we're both describing the same thing. Their is something for everybody here. 

Lyrically, there is some serious stuff being written here and it is best to come prepared. You will not be given a gift-wrapped box labeled "contents: the meaning of this song." Rather, you will be shown the musical equivalent of a complex "Eye Spy" picture book (remember those?) that initially seems to be an artistic collage and nothing more. Yet with further study and examination, certain patterns or anomalies begin to stand out that direct your attention to other details you previously overlooked and soon the beautiful collage becomes only the framework for a deeper story and meaning. You may find that certain lyrics will get stuck with you for days, turning them over and over in your head, coming up with a list of possible interpretations. I love this kind of stuff. After all, that's what this blog is all about. 

Now, what about the song posted on this page? Albertine. This song contains all of the elements described above: rich instrumentation, production, and lyrics. Yet as sweeping and beautiful as this artist's music is, this particular song makes me a little uncomfortable. The deep, rhythmic guitar and percussion play like the soundtrack to a solemn ritual, commanding your attention. Listen to the song a few times and you will start to get a sense of it's context:

On a thousandth hill, I think of Albertine

There in her eyes what I don't see with my own

Rwanda

Now that I have seen, I am responsible

Faith without deeds is dead

My goodness. Regardless of how familiar you may be with the genocide, you may be wondering (like me), "What did you see? What are you responsible for?" If you look up any interviews with Brooke about this very song, you may hear her describe how Albertine is a real person that she met when she travelled to Rwanda. The story is true. 

The thing about this song that makes me uncomfortable are the phrases "Now that I have seen, I am responsible" and "faith without deeds is dead." These aren't thoughts that I like to dwell on. But look at it this way: Brooke is writing about a real person. We are not told much about her in the song itself but, given the context, it is likely that her world has been terrorized by forces beyond her control. Being in the presence of such oppression naturally evokes a response from the viewer. I believe this song is part of Brooke's response. She wanted to do something, maybe the best thing she could do was to write a song about it and share it with others:

...I am on a stage, a thousand eyes on me

I will tell them, Albertine. 

I will tell them, Albertine.

Brooke did not set out to right the wrongs of an entire nation. She did something practical. She chose not to be numb to the pain of another and then she told someone about it: us. And she told it in the best way she knows how: through music. Like we talked about last week with Eric Bibb, sometimes it's the small things that pave the way for a major impact. What happens when millions of people (or "a thousand eyes") hears this story and it spreads like a fire following a trail of parched vines? Do you think it will be easier for someone to see the struggles and pain in the lives of their neighbors? Do you think it will be easier for that someone to recognize how their gifts, talents, and personality fit like a puzzle piece into the void of that neighbor's need? Do you think it will be easier for that someone to do something about it? I do. 

I think we are far more equipped to change the world than we think we are. We've all been loved by somebody, we all know how to love somebody, and we're all gifted at something through which to express that love. It will make the difference. 

"The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet" - Frederick Buechner

What is your deep gladness?