The thunderstorms flashed around Nashville all day, and so the airlines cancelled Seth’s flight. He called to see if I would cover his gig at the Inn last night. I figured a Monday night at the Inn would be a pretty dead affair, but I figured it would at least (almost) fill the fuel tank on the bus, and Seth was in a jam, so I figured what the heck. It was as I imagined it would be: a few tables of people having dinner, seemingly unaware that music was a part of the fare as well.
Thirty years of playing in pubs and I still hate that feeling of imposing on people who are just out for a social drink or dinner. I still fret about my first song. Every night in a pub scene like this feels like a first date. You can win or lose the crowd quickly when those first notes hit the air. The only person paying attention to me as I set up was a young boy of four or five years old. I know parents like it when their kids get attention, so I started with “A Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night.” He liked the parts where the fox grabs the grey goose by the neck, and especially the part where the fox and wife cut up the goose with a carving knife. Because he laughed, the adults laughed; because he listened, the rest of the crowd did as well.
A couple in the far corner requested “I’ll Fly Away,” and I grimaced as I feigned limited knowledge of that beautiful classic gospel tune I’ve probably sung some 3000 times. By bar standards, it was a hit! And so that small crowd of people stuck with me through the good (and not so good) of my repertoire. In between songs I queried each table about where they were from and why they came to the Inn. “To see you, of course,” became the polite and endearing reply. When I finished the night, the last table standing was the couple in the corner. They invited me over and we talked until closing. We talked of folk songs and lyrics. One of them said, “You only know what you think by writing it down.” As a writer, that hit me in the sweet spot. That phrase hooked me in like the fox on a chilly night hooked the young boy. I asked them: ”What do you mean by that.“ And the magic began.
I don’t remember his or her name, though I know I wrote them down on a napkin somewhere. Jordan, I think, is his name. I know that he is as a professor of psychology at the University of Toronto, He said that William James first wrote the phrase, and that both his research and his teaching validated that what James wrote is true--you only know what you think by writing it down. The three of us talked and talked and laughed and wondered aloud. I don’t remember everything, but I know that I left inspired by their words, their collective wisdom, and their gift of a friendship freely given. I came home thinking of words and how words are needed to fully understand both joy and sorrow.
There is something palpable and real about words put down on the page that give words life and meaning. Meaning is born out of expression and not simply reflection. The seed is sown in the depths of our private meditations, but the plant--and hence the fruit--is borne of giving form and shape to those meditations. You can’t point to a newly sown garden and say, ”See what I’ve planted!“ You must first put in the labor to make those seeds sprout and flourish; only when the field is rich in fruit and flower will the gardener share the bounty of his or her labor. Jordan said the added bonus is that research has proven that writing about the joys and sorrows of our lives will make us more physically healthy!
Writing can be a process of overcoming our fear of the unknown. It helps to create the necessary distance from what is hard and troubling, and it helps us to see the monster within from a safe place. Perhaps you know that your fear of bees is related to stepping into a bees nest as a child, but you’ve never written about that experience; you have never truly reflected on that time in your life. Through writing you may not overcome your fear of bees, but you can put that fear in perspective, and you can sense the rational from what was once irrational. This is not to advocate running for a pad and pencil every time your life gets tough. Tough times need time--sometimes a long time--before they can be fully expressed in words. Knowing when you are emotionally ready to write about a tough period in your life is part of the process. In that sense, writing must be a part of our lifestyle and not a medicine reached for only in times of need. Through regular writing we will know when we are ready!
After my father died following a long illness, it was a cathartic and rewarding exercise to write a eulogy for him. I was in many ways prepared for his death, and the process of writing was easy, and the words about my dad flowed out of me like a mountain stream. But when Patty, my idolized older sister, died suddenly, I was devastated. There were no words I could speak. No one even asked if I could write a few words about her. I couldn’t. But with the balm of time far enough behind me, I find myself writing about her often--she was my earliest mentor as a writer! Now I share the fullness and joy of her life as if she is an old friend who still lives beside me. I laugh when I talk about her as if she is in the next room. I know now that the magnanimity of her life did not die with her early death, but it is relived and reborn in the words I write. The memories, which were once so bitter, are now filled with a poignancy and meaning that give an added depth to my own life.
Writing about the the common experiences that bring us joy helps us to celebrate what is most real and eternal in our own lives. It helps us to know that we are on the right path, and it helps to keep us on the right path. I always marvel when I read my wife’s blog. It is full of stories about the life and times of family life in our house. She somehow manages to find the enduring meaning in a passing moment or offhand comment from one of our kids. When I am tired, grumpy, and out of sorts, I go to her blog, not because I am seeking comfort, but because I am energized and informed by her words. When I am full of hope and optimism, I go to her blog because it keeps that optimism and hope alive. Denise is proof of the power of the moment. There does not have to be a lag time when celebrating a joyous moment as may be needed for a more difficult time. If it’s worth a picture, it’s definitely worth a few words, too.
My memory now is of a conversation cut short by the bartender flicking the lights in mock annoyance. There were goodbyes with assurances of future visits--visits I am sure that will happen. Time and experience are relative. What I gained from a closing time conversation in a small town bar seems out of proportion to the time spent talking.
Maybe that is the proof of words.
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