This morning I read a poem in the New Yorker called “Waiting and Finding” by Jack Gilbert. It felt somewhat serendipitous to stumble across this poem today.
At the Bread ‘n Molasses issue launch party on Wednesday night, during the open mic portion of the evening, while Paul McGraw was introducing one of his songs, he said that he and his singing/songwriting partner, Connie, believe everyone has music in their lives. And by music he didn’t necessarily mean instruments and notes, but something that resonates within one’s soul.
The sad thing is some people never tune into it. But when you find it, when you listen and begin to hear your music, then it’s magic and you’ll start to dance.
In an evening where my emotions were already running pretty high, this idea of dancing to the music of your life and the beautiful song that Paul then sang were enough to make my lip quiver and my eyes burn as I held back tears.
And today, the poem.
Meaning that often he lives/silent in the middle of the world’s music.
My how this speaks to me! I have perfected the concept of living silent. I started writing a novel called Silent Lies one time. I deliberately gave a character in another story the surname of Stillman to show the silence in case anyone missed it. I’ve never stuck with anything. I’ve never totally committed to anything. I’ve never been brave. I’ve never taken a chance. Fleeing in the opposite direction whenever the shimmer of a song started to rise in my soul …
Beginning to hear the silence/as he waits. Beginning to like the silence maybe too much.
And it feels right, like a sign from the universe, that I should read and reflect upon my life of silence just two days after I sat alone in a crowded room, holding back hot tears as a smile tugged at my quivering lips, butterflies took flight in the pit of my stomach, and I thought, “You are the music in my life, and I want to dance.”