Nostalgia over sad songs and clovers
He has red hair and a smooth voice,
And I swear I could’ve written that song myself.
I still wish I had Legos,
And the lyrics never made sense to all these sad songs,
Until I sang them myself.
Birdy was just 16 when she recorded that cover of Skinny Love,
And if you listen, you can hear it.
Sometimes I only find myself listening to the music I need after it’s already playing
And I hear the words and I realize that I wasn’t in a mood for this song,
I was in a mood to share this mood with someone who had
Made words to commemorate it.
I was in a mood to listen and cry because I’m sad,
I was in a mood to dance around my room with my dork antics,
I was in a mood to remember,
Or in a mood to praise.
Music is part of me,
And that isn’t something you can explain,
But you can certainly sing about it.
I can memorize all the lyrics but if I don’t know need
Then it will never sound quite right.
Ed Sheeran and singing about raw pain,
Needles, drug addiction, prostitution, abortion,
I cry because I can feel it when I let myself,
How ****ed up is that?
I can feel that same pain, and those things have never been my life.
When I say I feel it,
I mean I bawl it,
I shake it,
I sob and weep it red in the face,
Try explaining that one;
But I do, too,
In the words I use,
In the way I listen,
In the things I think and the joy they give me,
The lone word “understand” on a text message,
Nikki sending just that word, no ownership;
That is what it means.
So often I wonder why I know what I do when I sit and draw from reality,
It’s like sucking up the good with the bad,
Into a cosmic Swiffer,
Written across my face.
I can relate,
But that isn’t it.
This struggle to describe what is it has been my identity for so long,
And although I still have yet to know,
I think I will only know fully in Heaven.
But I think I know a little more today,
And tomorrow too,
And yesterday, a little less.
If I had to say what the difference is,
On January 21st, 2015, at 6:54pm in the evening Central time,
I would say that I esteem everything. Not just bits and pieces. All of it.
I value everything. I don’t value any of it less, except the pieces that are utterly worthless and painful and harm your soul.
The rest of it is pretty perfect to me.
Not perfect like God is perfect, but perfect like finding a perfect strawberry. Or finding blackberries that were ripened on the stem. Or finding a four leaf clover. Or falling in love.
All of those things are pretty perfect, and contrary to popular belief about four leaf clovers, you can’t really go looking for all of them. They find you. You just have to stay awake long enough to care.
But who knows. Maybe the next four leaf clover will be one of the small ones with purple streaks, white heart centers, and dark green veiny edges, like sandpaper. The most beautiful one I ever found.
But I because I don’t know, I’m still holding out for my favorite. Size of a quarter, straight luck-of-the-Irish variety that has hearty white shadows in the middle and very delicate leaves that symmetrically attach to a tender stem.
And although I’m not really looking, I’m still awake.