A few weekends ago a friend of mine posted a video on Facebook and one thing she said stuck in my mind. Basically, she said that for a lot of people under 50, the COVID-19 crisis and the current civil unrest between races is likely the first major life challenge they've faced. In light of that, I think those of us who have gone through significant trials owe the younger generations some grace. I think about my own life and the way I responded to the seemingly insurmountable problems I had to overcome as a younger me. I didn't always act with decorum, didn't always take the high road, didn't always know exactly what to do or how to feel or even where to place the anger and frustration that comes with change.
And that's what all of this is, by the way. It's change in progress.
Lately, during all the staying at home, I've picked up my guitar again and started practicing in earnest. I learned a few chords years ago but never stuck with it much. This time, I vowed I would learn some actual songs that I enjoy, and so far I've done okay. I'm not ready for a concert or anything, but I get a sense of peace and even connection to people I loved and lost. People like my father and my uncle Maurice. I sit with my guitar at times, strumming random chords, trying to think of THAT song--the one I want to play and sing from the depths of my heart, but it never comes to me. It feels like something I once knew but have forgotten. While my mind reaches and reaches for it, I spiral deeper into myself, past myself, to the esseence of who made me what I am now. Still, the song remains hidden. Tonight I remembered all the spiral notebooks that were bequeathed to me by a family member after my uncle passed away. The notebooks are weathered with time, hundrededs of pages of neatly written lyrics in pencil and pen, some with chords scribbled above the words. They are filled with songs that resonated with him in some way--songs that found a home deep in his heart, and made him sit for hours scribbling lyirics on lined notebook paper. I went in search of those books hoping that somewhere in them, I'd find that song for myself. I had no luck finding them. I know they're here, but to find them I would need to tackle my storage room. I'm not ready for that.
See, we moved here three days before Chrsitmas last year. Three months later COVID-19 hit, and my job and life became very compicated. I am not a stranger to complication, so for the most part I've taken it it stride, but I know my limits and digging into that storage room is something that would stretch me beyond them very quickly. It's cluttered, dark, disorganized, full of unpacked boxes and things I intend to give away or donate to charity. If someone forced me to unpack everything in there I might find myself struggling to make sense of it all, even though I would probably also find treasures, like my uncle's notebooks packed away in a box.
That's how change often works though, isn't it? It comes when you're not expecting it, when you dont't want it or you're not ready for it. It's messy and it seems nonsensical and disorganized. We have a hard time processing it, making sense of it, discerning the garbage from the truth. This stuff is never easy.
One of these days, I'll find myself neck deep in the pile of stuff from that storage room because I'll go in search of one little thing that lies buried in the clutter. My search for some object of meaning to me is not unike what is happening to us now as a country. We are looking for that rare quality that makes us a nation undivided but in the process we are unable to look away from the ugliness and messiness of the past and the present. How we choose to use or discard the stuff we find inside ourselves through this process will ultimately define who we are, deep inside. It will either bring out that long-lost song that we've yet to find, or extinquish the spark of humanity that longs to burn bright in us all.
I hope you, my friends, find your song and fan the flames of love, peace, acceptance, and liberty that longs to light your way.
