Angry at the Birds

     I don't look for sadness, but I love being touched by music. I've had periods where it felt good to embrace self pity, sure, because I've been through heart break and I've been young and naive and didn't hold back when I probably should have. When it was all over, though, I realized how selfish and foolish I'd been to let the pity in for as long as I had. As I've grown, I've learned to be open less foolishly.
I've also found sadness when loved ones have fallen ill as they approached the end of their lives. Initially, you want to stay away to protect yourself from hurt. Never do that to yourself. Embrace often. You'll find endless opportunities to regret the hugs you didn't give or take and the stories you could have heard.  Be there. Be present. Lend a hand because your loved ones may not know they need it. If you can be there to support a friend when they're down and you do so before they have to ask, you've really helped. I have learned that there's a vast difference between being sullen, sad, and drowning in depressing thoughts versus being touched by the beauty of being a part of someone else's life and how full you can feel by letting them be a part of yours. It feels just as good to let the experience of others touch you when you can identify with their interpretations.
     Last week, I heard an episode of the NPR podcast All Songs Considered. On it, Robin Hilton played a song called "Doing the Right Thing" by a band from North London called Daughter. The video is below but be warned that you should grab an unopened box of tissue before hitting play.

     Now, I'm very sorry to put you through that but I'm also happy if you felt the same as I did. I've seen the video three times and, all told, listened to the song at least 8 times. Every time I hear it, I'm left physically shaking and without control over my tears, which flow like the rain we're experiencing today in Sacramento. It's thunderous outside and very wet and my face feels the same. Again, I don't feel like I'm enjoying the sadness, necessarily (though isn't a good cry therapeutic to the nerves?). I do thrive on being touched by music, lyrics, and the image portrayed in this video. I can't think of a time when I've felt more touched by the music, lyrics, and meaning of a song.
     I've been there when my grandfather lay in bed, shaking with weakness and grasping at any recognizable thought he could make sense of. His sickness in his final days, as his body slowly shut down, sapped him of the personality I grew up with. He changed from the patriarch of the family who had built an empire to a man who needed those around him to make it through the day. As I held his hand, he called me by his own son's name, though my uncle had died when I was two. There were times when he was so physically weak from a bad heart that he couldn't walk from bed to bathroom without assistance, which I learned the hard way. I'll always wonder if I could have done more but I'll never regret being there whenever I could. I always credit my grandfather for my sense of humor and my ability to keep a straight face when I'm joking around.
     When my great grandmother died, the only thing I could think about in my mourning was how overjoyed she was in her final years by simple things we of the outside world were taking for granted. One story, in particular, that she loved to regale me with were of the family of doves that made their nest on the balcony of her room at the assisted living home. She had watched them build the nest and huddle together. You could hear her face turn up in an over-sized smile as she told me that the eggs had hatched and later how the young chicks fought like teenagers.
     I was living on my own and far away for the first time. Deep down, I knew I'd rather have been with her or near her, but I'd often get caught up in my own selfish world. Speaking to her on the phone was always a delight. The following year, when the doves didn't return to rebuild and start again, I found it almost shocking that she wasn't more affected by their absence. She was much more grounded than I. I had had hoped for at least one more year of stories of the doves and their antics. She was much more ready to let go of them than I was. In hind sight, I not only wanted something more than a TV she could barely hear to entertain her. I wanted to hear the joy in her voice because, to me, it kept her alive. I suppose that's why, when she passed that year, I found myself angry at the birds yet ready for her to go because we had shared something special towards the end, after sharing so much love and wonder in my life to that point. Her life and what she gave me with it touched me, which I could never feel sadness over.