29 August 2010
A Year in the Life
My beautiful niece, Eva Olive (who is as smart, funny, creative, and joyful as she is adorable) turned one last Sunday. Here she is.
28 August 2010
There Is a Girl Inside
One of my students recently wrote an essay about the 'undiscovery' of herself. She wrote about a morning when, looking in the mirror at a face she'd seen hundreds of thousands of times before, she felt as though a stranger was staring back at her. She worried about this at first but then took it to mean she was 'undiscovering' what she believed she had known in order to make room for what she was--hopefully--going to learn in the future, not only about herself, but about the world and how she views it.
Smart cookie, her.
I know that feeling really well, the long stare into my own eyes that leaves me questioning who's really in here. When I was younger, the answer was easy: singer, actress. All through high school, this is who I was. Singer, actress. I was the choir/theatre/forensics kid who liked to read and write but never more than I liked performing. On stage, I didn't have to deal with myself. On stage, I got to be somebody--anybody--else. That's not to say that I had serious self-esteem issues or that I hated the 'real' me, I just never let myself slow down enough to know her. For about four years straight, I was in a production of some kind nonstop, usually with three week windows in between that allowed only for sleeping, recharging, and gearing up for the next role.
I was not and am not a great actress, but I loved it, and passionate commitment goes a long way on stage. I was lucky that people thought I was good enough to keep casting me, never in anything really important, just school and college shows, but they were enough to keep my ever having to learn who I really am at bay. I had ideas, flashes of self, but they were always like the Northern Lights: bright, almost scary in other foreignness, and fleeting.
I got so used to playing parts, that I developed a public self that really doesn't gel with who I've always hoped to be. This public self is opinionated, brassy, and for years was the loudest and last one standing at most parties. I got to where I believed the only way someone could be interested in what I had to say was if I said it in an acid tone, or if I held court from my deluded and half-drunken perch in some dark room.
When you're wrapped in a steel overcoat, not much hurt gets through, but of course, neither does much light.
So, in my efforts to stop deflecting, to stop worrying about being hurt, to know the girl inside and to introduce her to everyone else, I'm writing this little self-indulgent post. If you've managed to hang in this long, thanks--I'm almost done. I just want you to know these few things about who I really am, so the next time we speak, you're clear about who you're talking to.
* I believe every person has something to offer the world, that no one is a waste, and that we all deserve to be happy.
* I'd rather be hurt than hurt someone else. In every instance.
* Choosing to be alone so that someone I love could be happy is the hardest thing I've ever done.
* I really want you to know how beautiful I think you are, no matter who you are.
* No matter what story you're telling, if it matters to you, it matters to me.
* I am trying every day to deserve the incredible gifts I have been given.
* There is nothing more important than honesty, love, and passion.
There Is a Girl Inside, Lucille Clifton
there is a girl inside
she is randy as a wolf
she will not walk away
and leave these bones
to an old woman.
she is a green tree
in a forest of kindling.
she is a green girl
in a used poet.
she has waited
patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom
and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.
Smart cookie, her.
I know that feeling really well, the long stare into my own eyes that leaves me questioning who's really in here. When I was younger, the answer was easy: singer, actress. All through high school, this is who I was. Singer, actress. I was the choir/theatre/forensics kid who liked to read and write but never more than I liked performing. On stage, I didn't have to deal with myself. On stage, I got to be somebody--anybody--else. That's not to say that I had serious self-esteem issues or that I hated the 'real' me, I just never let myself slow down enough to know her. For about four years straight, I was in a production of some kind nonstop, usually with three week windows in between that allowed only for sleeping, recharging, and gearing up for the next role.
I was not and am not a great actress, but I loved it, and passionate commitment goes a long way on stage. I was lucky that people thought I was good enough to keep casting me, never in anything really important, just school and college shows, but they were enough to keep my ever having to learn who I really am at bay. I had ideas, flashes of self, but they were always like the Northern Lights: bright, almost scary in other foreignness, and fleeting.
I got so used to playing parts, that I developed a public self that really doesn't gel with who I've always hoped to be. This public self is opinionated, brassy, and for years was the loudest and last one standing at most parties. I got to where I believed the only way someone could be interested in what I had to say was if I said it in an acid tone, or if I held court from my deluded and half-drunken perch in some dark room.
When you're wrapped in a steel overcoat, not much hurt gets through, but of course, neither does much light.
So, in my efforts to stop deflecting, to stop worrying about being hurt, to know the girl inside and to introduce her to everyone else, I'm writing this little self-indulgent post. If you've managed to hang in this long, thanks--I'm almost done. I just want you to know these few things about who I really am, so the next time we speak, you're clear about who you're talking to.
* I believe every person has something to offer the world, that no one is a waste, and that we all deserve to be happy.
* I'd rather be hurt than hurt someone else. In every instance.
* Choosing to be alone so that someone I love could be happy is the hardest thing I've ever done.
* I really want you to know how beautiful I think you are, no matter who you are.
* No matter what story you're telling, if it matters to you, it matters to me.
* I am trying every day to deserve the incredible gifts I have been given.
* There is nothing more important than honesty, love, and passion.
There Is a Girl Inside, Lucille Clifton
there is a girl inside
she is randy as a wolf
she will not walk away
and leave these bones
to an old woman.
she is a green tree
in a forest of kindling.
she is a green girl
in a used poet.
she has waited
patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom
and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.
22 August 2010
Amen
From www.dailyom.com:
Without a Net
Living Life with TrustLiving life without a net can be just what we need to step outside of ourselves and make the choices we need most.
As we create the life of our dreams, we often reach a crossroads where the choices seem to involve the risk of facing the unknown versus the safety and comfort of all that we have come to trust. We may feel like a tightrope walker, carefully teetering along the narrow path to our goals, sometimes feeling that we are doing so without a net. Knowing we have some backup may help us work up the courage to take those first steps, until we are secure in knowing that we have the skills to work without one. But when we live our lives from a place of balance and trust in the universe, we may not see our source of support, but we can know that it is there.
If we refuse to act only if we can see the safety net, we may be allowing the net to become a trap as it creates a barrier between us and the freedom to pursue our goals. Change is inherent in life, so even what we have learned to trust can surprise us at any moment. Remove fear from the equation and then, without even wondering what is going on below, we can devote our full attention to the dream that awaits us.
We attract support into our lives when we are willing to make those first tentative steps, trusting that the universe will provide exactly what we need. In that process we can decide that whatever comes from our actions is only for our highest and best experience of growth. It may come in the form of a soft landing, an unexpected rescue or an eye-opening experience gleaned only from the process of falling. So rather than allowing our lives to be dictated by fear of the unknown, or trying to avoid falling, we can appreciate that sometimes we experience life fully when we are willing to trust and fall. And in doing so, we may just find that we have the wings to fly.
When we believe that there is a reason for everything, we are stepping out with the safety net of the universe, and we know we will make the best from whatever comes our way.
Living Life with Trust
As we create the life of our dreams, we often reach a crossroads where the choices seem to involve the risk of facing the unknown versus the safety and comfort of all that we have come to trust. We may feel like a tightrope walker, carefully teetering along the narrow path to our goals, sometimes feeling that we are doing so without a net. Knowing we have some backup may help us work up the courage to take those first steps, until we are secure in knowing that we have the skills to work without one. But when we live our lives from a place of balance and trust in the universe, we may not see our source of support, but we can know that it is there.
If we refuse to act only if we can see the safety net, we may be allowing the net to become a trap as it creates a barrier between us and the freedom to pursue our goals. Change is inherent in life, so even what we have learned to trust can surprise us at any moment. Remove fear from the equation and then, without even wondering what is going on below, we can devote our full attention to the dream that awaits us.
We attract support into our lives when we are willing to make those first tentative steps, trusting that the universe will provide exactly what we need. In that process we can decide that whatever comes from our actions is only for our highest and best experience of growth. It may come in the form of a soft landing, an unexpected rescue or an eye-opening experience gleaned only from the process of falling. So rather than allowing our lives to be dictated by fear of the unknown, or trying to avoid falling, we can appreciate that sometimes we experience life fully when we are willing to trust and fall. And in doing so, we may just find that we have the wings to fly.
When we believe that there is a reason for everything, we are stepping out with the safety net of the universe, and we know we will make the best from whatever comes our way.
21 August 2010
Amy Lowell
I've been reading Amy Lowell this morning, an imagist/feminist/modernist dream she is. I didn't like her much when we were first introduced--her Garden by Moonlight and Venus Transiens didn't inspire me or show me anything new. Maybe I was just a distracted college kid--well, not kid, exactly--hell bent on proving I had as much right to literature as the others in the room. I felt, in that class in particular, that there was some element of danger that could shift the scales at any moment and reveal us all for the frauds we were, too scared to write our own words, but terribly critical of everyone elses.
At any rate, this morning, I ran across something of Amy's that I have read before, last year in fact I remember coming across it and being stunned. Where much of her other work feels pulled back, hesitant, an observer on one side of the glass longing for the life on the opposite, this one feels to me like she is in it, participating in the moment she so perfectly describes. Maybe it's my mood today, the wet grass and oppressive air, maybe it's all this damn gray that won't seem to go, but today, I am living here:
At any rate, this morning, I ran across something of Amy's that I have read before, last year in fact I remember coming across it and being stunned. Where much of her other work feels pulled back, hesitant, an observer on one side of the glass longing for the life on the opposite, this one feels to me like she is in it, participating in the moment she so perfectly describes. Maybe it's my mood today, the wet grass and oppressive air, maybe it's all this damn gray that won't seem to go, but today, I am living here:
The Taxi, Amy LOWELL
When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?
18 August 2010
Sorry, Leonard...I'm Busy
From his clearly deep and moving 1978 collection of poetry, Come Be with Me--the title of this post bears my response to his command--I give you an unparalleled gem...by Leonard Nimoy.
It is true that roses on a birthday ARE exciting--I don't begrudge him this statement--but they pale in comparison to rocket ships. Rocket ships can go into freaking space and you can look up close at stars and planets and the moon and stuff. Roses smell great, prick your fingers, and then die. They may transport you in an olfactory sense, but--and I'll say it again--rocket ships can go into FREAKING SPACE.
He makes a few other valid points, though. Logic, in fact, will never replace love. It can't: one is reasonable and the other uncontrollable, chemical, mystical, magical...I should probably stop myself before I start quoting Beatles lyrics.
The real problem I have with the poem--and I use that word with so much trepidation--is that the leaf print to the left has NO tie to the poem at all, and the last three words are an oxymoron; how can one be "an old-fashioned Spaceman," when spacemen are clearly from the future?
Jeesh. This guy.
It is true that roses on a birthday ARE exciting--I don't begrudge him this statement--but they pale in comparison to rocket ships. Rocket ships can go into freaking space and you can look up close at stars and planets and the moon and stuff. Roses smell great, prick your fingers, and then die. They may transport you in an olfactory sense, but--and I'll say it again--rocket ships can go into FREAKING SPACE.
He makes a few other valid points, though. Logic, in fact, will never replace love. It can't: one is reasonable and the other uncontrollable, chemical, mystical, magical...I should probably stop myself before I start quoting Beatles lyrics.
The real problem I have with the poem--and I use that word with so much trepidation--is that the leaf print to the left has NO tie to the poem at all, and the last three words are an oxymoron; how can one be "an old-fashioned Spaceman," when spacemen are clearly from the future?
Jeesh. This guy.
17 August 2010
As in Senegal
This week I have been trying to impress upon my students the importance of stories and how the ones we are told as we grow, the ones we believe, the ones that stay with us influence the people we become. This lesson has been central to the oral tradition of Native American literature--particularly as it relates to origin myths--and to the God fearing Puritans who were, in the words of Alfred Kazin, "certain of the next world but never sure of man in this one."
When discussing the ethnocentric view of the white settlers and their need to identify the Natives they encountered as savage or barbarian, I explained to my students that the settlers needed the narrative they created--their story--to make sense of a culture they weren't equipped to understand. Having been born and bred in a culture controlled by biblical and royal law, the whites didn't recognize the intricate and beautiful system of tribal codes and law that existed in this country long before they arrived.
This long preamble is here to set up what happened when I asked each class if any of them had ever experienced that feeling of complete lack of control that comes from being in a completely foreign situation. Many had, but this story stuck with me, and led me to develop the theory I'm going to get to in a minute (I swear I will--hang with me). One student said he had traveled to Senegal and, while there, rode in a car with a native driver. The thing that made him so uncomfortable was that Senegal has no traffic laws (since hearing this story, I've done some research and it appears there are laws, but they aren't strictly enforced or followed). The student said riding in a car there made him feel completely out of control and anxious because nothing that was happening--excessively exceeding speed limits and driving on sidewalks--made sense to him. Once he trusted his driver, though, every subsequent trip was easier to handle (though never totally peaceful).
The conclusion I've come to is that, in the U.S., we expect one another to adhere to a certain set of cultural laws and codes--as well as legal ones, like traffic laws--and those expectations lead us to make all sorts of dangerous assumptions. If I come to a stop sign, I believe the person approaching the intersection on the other side is going to follow the same rules I know to follow, so I don't actually have to pay them a great deal of attention. I can cruise to the stop sign and then cross the intersection without really looking up at all, as long as I believe the other driver will do what I expect her to. Whereas, in Senegal, the drivers are attuned to each other, watching for the other drivers' actions and responding in kind, being more aware of one another as opposed tuning into themselves so much that they don't really notice what's happening around them.
Which brings me to my point: wouldn't we all be better off if we stopped expecting one another to follow some obscure and in a lot of cases highly personal set of codes and laws and, instead, starting watching each other to see when we could pull ahead, when we needed to slow down, and when we need to stop altogether to allow someone else to move forward? It seems, lately, that many of my friends are caught in places of stasis because they feel so compelled to live according to someone else's expectations and not one of them, if I asked them to be really honest with me, would say they're happy about it.
So, my challenge is this: live your life as though you were a Senegalese driver, knowing your own progress only occurs if you are willing not to follow others rules, but to follow your own instincts, always watching for the break in the traffic that lets you move, even if only a few feet at a time, ever, only, always, forward.
When discussing the ethnocentric view of the white settlers and their need to identify the Natives they encountered as savage or barbarian, I explained to my students that the settlers needed the narrative they created--their story--to make sense of a culture they weren't equipped to understand. Having been born and bred in a culture controlled by biblical and royal law, the whites didn't recognize the intricate and beautiful system of tribal codes and law that existed in this country long before they arrived.
This long preamble is here to set up what happened when I asked each class if any of them had ever experienced that feeling of complete lack of control that comes from being in a completely foreign situation. Many had, but this story stuck with me, and led me to develop the theory I'm going to get to in a minute (I swear I will--hang with me). One student said he had traveled to Senegal and, while there, rode in a car with a native driver. The thing that made him so uncomfortable was that Senegal has no traffic laws (since hearing this story, I've done some research and it appears there are laws, but they aren't strictly enforced or followed). The student said riding in a car there made him feel completely out of control and anxious because nothing that was happening--excessively exceeding speed limits and driving on sidewalks--made sense to him. Once he trusted his driver, though, every subsequent trip was easier to handle (though never totally peaceful).
The conclusion I've come to is that, in the U.S., we expect one another to adhere to a certain set of cultural laws and codes--as well as legal ones, like traffic laws--and those expectations lead us to make all sorts of dangerous assumptions. If I come to a stop sign, I believe the person approaching the intersection on the other side is going to follow the same rules I know to follow, so I don't actually have to pay them a great deal of attention. I can cruise to the stop sign and then cross the intersection without really looking up at all, as long as I believe the other driver will do what I expect her to. Whereas, in Senegal, the drivers are attuned to each other, watching for the other drivers' actions and responding in kind, being more aware of one another as opposed tuning into themselves so much that they don't really notice what's happening around them.
Which brings me to my point: wouldn't we all be better off if we stopped expecting one another to follow some obscure and in a lot of cases highly personal set of codes and laws and, instead, starting watching each other to see when we could pull ahead, when we needed to slow down, and when we need to stop altogether to allow someone else to move forward? It seems, lately, that many of my friends are caught in places of stasis because they feel so compelled to live according to someone else's expectations and not one of them, if I asked them to be really honest with me, would say they're happy about it.
So, my challenge is this: live your life as though you were a Senegalese driver, knowing your own progress only occurs if you are willing not to follow others rules, but to follow your own instincts, always watching for the break in the traffic that lets you move, even if only a few feet at a time, ever, only, always, forward.
14 August 2010
Consciousness
Anne Lamott writes: "Becoming a writer is about becoming conscious. When you're conscious and writing from a place of insight and simplicity and real caring about the truth, you have the ability to throw the lights on for your reader."
In the last year and a half, I have become that writer, the one I always said I would be one day. I take notes on receipts, try to carry a notebook with me wherever I go, jot ideas or images down on my hand in a pinch, and I have a good friend who reads every word, supports me, and offers feedback that helps me get better and stronger.
The piece missing from this puzzle, though, is that the light that is thrown on for your reader may also be thrown on for you, the writer, once you become this conscious and (hopefully) insightful human being with a penchant for finding words to express the beauty and agony of the world around you. I have always had a real caring about the truth, that's the element that wasn't new for me, but becoming conscious of the truths in my own life was a longer haul and a harder road than I could have ever imagined.
When you wake up, become conscious, look around at the grass and sky and people who make up the landscape of your life, you will see things that are beautiful--blindingly so--but you will also begin to notice the things that will never shine for you no matter how hard and how desperately you keep polishing them. It is dangerous to believe that effort and hope are enough to bring something back from the dead--a dying tree, a broken lamp, a relationship that is past repair. Of course, it is always easier to surrender, to turn the blind eye to the truth, to say, "As for me and my house, we will ignore the truth." The hardest thing to do is to take action born of that consciousness that you have so recently and so surprisingly acquired. But, if ever I hope to be the writer, the woman, the human being I have dreamed of being all my life, then I can't be satisfied with, as Lamott says, simply 'throwing on the lights.' I have to be willing to walk into the dark room without knowing where the switch is, believing I will find it and that what I see when all is illuminated will be worth every second of fear that came before.
In the last year and a half, I have become that writer, the one I always said I would be one day. I take notes on receipts, try to carry a notebook with me wherever I go, jot ideas or images down on my hand in a pinch, and I have a good friend who reads every word, supports me, and offers feedback that helps me get better and stronger.
The piece missing from this puzzle, though, is that the light that is thrown on for your reader may also be thrown on for you, the writer, once you become this conscious and (hopefully) insightful human being with a penchant for finding words to express the beauty and agony of the world around you. I have always had a real caring about the truth, that's the element that wasn't new for me, but becoming conscious of the truths in my own life was a longer haul and a harder road than I could have ever imagined.
When you wake up, become conscious, look around at the grass and sky and people who make up the landscape of your life, you will see things that are beautiful--blindingly so--but you will also begin to notice the things that will never shine for you no matter how hard and how desperately you keep polishing them. It is dangerous to believe that effort and hope are enough to bring something back from the dead--a dying tree, a broken lamp, a relationship that is past repair. Of course, it is always easier to surrender, to turn the blind eye to the truth, to say, "As for me and my house, we will ignore the truth." The hardest thing to do is to take action born of that consciousness that you have so recently and so surprisingly acquired. But, if ever I hope to be the writer, the woman, the human being I have dreamed of being all my life, then I can't be satisfied with, as Lamott says, simply 'throwing on the lights.' I have to be willing to walk into the dark room without knowing where the switch is, believing I will find it and that what I see when all is illuminated will be worth every second of fear that came before.
10 August 2010
A Cover to End All Covers
I love Old Crow Medicine Show's song 'Wagon Wheel' a little too much. It's been on every cd I've made in the last three months, it's in constant rotation on my ipod, and it can put me in a good mood no matter how low I've been. I really didn't think the song could get better.
And then a friend sent me a link to Mumford & Sons covering the aforementioned song.
It blew my mind.
Judge for yourself.
And then a friend sent me a link to Mumford & Sons covering the aforementioned song.
It blew my mind.
Judge for yourself.
03 August 2010
Anne Lamott Defines My Life
Yesterday I started reading Anne Lamott's "Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith." I've had it for awhile but didn't pick it up until I was headed off to sit pool side with friends and soak up the sun on my last few days of freedom before the school year begins.
This afternoon, after posting about Mumford this morning, I was in the sun again. On a lawn chair in my backyard, a sky empty of clouds above me, the same shade of blue as the rooftops in Santorini, I stumbled across a passage so perfect, I had to set the book down and remind myself to breathe. It is incredible the way--when we most need it--the right book, the right person, the right anything come along at the exact perfect time and reminds us that we aren't nearly as alone as we thought ourselves to be.
The passage I read: "...music is about as physical as it gets: your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, the breath. We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn't get to any other way."
My father is a musician, my brother is a musician, my mother has a lovely singing voice but never cared to perform and I, once, called myself a singer. The last few months, at church, I have rediscovered my voice and--over the last year thanks to good music from a dear friend--I have been reminded of how song unites both the singer and the listener. An intimate concert at a local venue, singing alone in the shower, finding the melody in the way an old woman speaks to her husband as they shuffle down the grocery store aisle, arms entwined, loving even these small mundane moments because it is in them that they are reminded all over again of how good it is to share a life with the person you love--their is music to be heard everywhere if we only open ourselves to the song.
Henry Miller wrote, "To sing, you must first open your mouth." I believe in this as much as I believe in a universe created to fill me with an awe that stops my breath, as much as I believe in a god that wants me to be happy, as much as I believe in the power of love to revive even the most closed and broken heart. And, because I believe Miller's words, I have been trying to open my mouth as often as I can, to speak for those who cannot, to praise those who feel unworthy, to love those who have forgotten how easy love should be.
In keeping with Lamott's words, with Miller's, and with my own commitment to making this life as beautiful for the people I love as possible--and yes, for the record I do include myself in that group--here is the song of the day.
This afternoon, after posting about Mumford this morning, I was in the sun again. On a lawn chair in my backyard, a sky empty of clouds above me, the same shade of blue as the rooftops in Santorini, I stumbled across a passage so perfect, I had to set the book down and remind myself to breathe. It is incredible the way--when we most need it--the right book, the right person, the right anything come along at the exact perfect time and reminds us that we aren't nearly as alone as we thought ourselves to be.
The passage I read: "...music is about as physical as it gets: your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, the breath. We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn't get to any other way."
My father is a musician, my brother is a musician, my mother has a lovely singing voice but never cared to perform and I, once, called myself a singer. The last few months, at church, I have rediscovered my voice and--over the last year thanks to good music from a dear friend--I have been reminded of how song unites both the singer and the listener. An intimate concert at a local venue, singing alone in the shower, finding the melody in the way an old woman speaks to her husband as they shuffle down the grocery store aisle, arms entwined, loving even these small mundane moments because it is in them that they are reminded all over again of how good it is to share a life with the person you love--their is music to be heard everywhere if we only open ourselves to the song.
Henry Miller wrote, "To sing, you must first open your mouth." I believe in this as much as I believe in a universe created to fill me with an awe that stops my breath, as much as I believe in a god that wants me to be happy, as much as I believe in the power of love to revive even the most closed and broken heart. And, because I believe Miller's words, I have been trying to open my mouth as often as I can, to speak for those who cannot, to praise those who feel unworthy, to love those who have forgotten how easy love should be.
In keeping with Lamott's words, with Miller's, and with my own commitment to making this life as beautiful for the people I love as possible--and yes, for the record I do include myself in that group--here is the song of the day.
WBP
It's been a long time since I've discovered a group that had this great an impact on me. While I hope they find success as a band, I'd rather they never become the kind of group you hear on the radio. Knowing they belong to the few of us lucky enough to love them makes me feel a bit like I have the key to a room no one else knows exsits...a room filled as much with heartbreak as it is with hope, as much with beauty as it is with sweet ache of breaking down.
Recent events--too common and too sad to detail here--have made it nearly impossible for me to stop listening to them and to this song in particular. If my life had a soundtrack right now, this would be the band scoring the highs and lows.
Recent events--too common and too sad to detail here--have made it nearly impossible for me to stop listening to them and to this song in particular. If my life had a soundtrack right now, this would be the band scoring the highs and lows.
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