Telepathic Teddy Bear - My Body's a Question

No, there's no answer. That's the point. I thought my body was a riddle, or an enigma, or at least very very confused. But then I heard this song, and my perception changed. It's a question, without an answer, and that makes it ok to stop looking for the answer that does not exist.

I ran across this song several months ago. My cousins were promoting their friend's new album - Reflections, by Telepathic Teddy Bear.  I listened, and listened, and listened, and for months now, this song keeps popping into my head. The whole album is great, but this one, well...

http://telepathicteddybear.bandcamp.com/track/my-bodys-a-question

I somehow don't think the composer ever intended it to be interpreted as I do, but that is the beauty of art. The artist puts something forth, and meaning is created somewhere in between the output and the reception in the back and forth between artist and audience. I don't know much about the composer, except that he is originally from Mexico, and I can assume safely that he is in his early 30's. I have no idea what challenges he has faced in his life that have brought him to the point of writing poignant music, but it doesn't matter so much, because art transcends personal experience and becomes something that speaks to the shared human experience. This song does speak to me, and it speaks of my own struggles to let go of my deep desire for control and ultimately, answers.

Superviviente - Survivor

Today's musical selection comes to you all the way from Spain. Ella Baila Sola was a group/duo that had huge success in Latin countries in the late 90's. I really like their folk/pop style - its like a populist version of the Indigo Girls. But of all their songs, many of which are about female empowerment (just like the Indigo Girls), this one  - Superviviente - is special, and not just because of the killer harmonies and catchy tune.

I couldn't find a video of the song, but here is a black-screen with the song playing, and one with videos of waves.

This is a song that I turn to when I'm down, when I'm up, whenever there is any kind of upheaval in my life. It's been on my soundtrack for break-ups, clean-ups, cheering-up friends, low-down, and all kinds of other moments. Sometimes I listen to it and it is about me. Other times, it's about people I admire, or I love.

Nunca te he visto más alto ni más guapo ni mejor

te han sentado bien los años y me alegra oir tu voz 

en el fondo de tus ojos donde guardas tus caminos 

lo que llena y lo que duele lo que nadie más ha visto 

es allí donde me quedo y en tu nueva paz respiro 

y me crece verte fuerte porque todos somos niños

No Soy de Aqui - farewell, Facundo

No soy de aquí, ni soy de allá
no tengo edad, ni porvenir
y ser feliz es mi color
de identidad 

His most famous words will live on.

I'm not from here, I'm not from there
I have no age, no future
And being happy, is my colour
Of Identity

Poignant. Simple. True.

The news of his death just got to me this morning, but it happened a few days ago. I can't call myself a fan perse, because his music was part of the landscape. As much as the Popocatepetl or the Bullfighting arena. It was just there. Part of the general culture that surrounded my early years. His voice followed us North, along with my father's passion for music and his country, where Facundo Cabral was exiled from his native Argentina; Mexico lindo y querido.

"I love life so much because it cost me so much to enjoy it," he told The Associated Press in an interview in 2008.
"From the cradle to the grave is a school, so if what we call problems are lessons, we see life differently," he said. (from the CBC report on his murder)

Cabral, writer, musician, exile, widow, survivor, wrote so clearly and simply that his words became part of the tapestry of life throughout Latin America and rippled outwards to the rest of the world. I never realized how much of the background music of my life was written by him until today, when I looked him up. So many voices took up his words, and his words are so easy to own.

Smiling Through this Stupid Cold - ramblings of a very foggy mind

My grandmother said to me the other day that you have to smile every morning. You have to get up and smile. Since this comes from the only 90+ woman I know who still lives on her own and has perfect skin, I think it's worth listening. Now, she also never eats anything green, and believes everything she sees on the super-alarmist Spanish language news, but still. Worth listening. And it immediately made me think of Carole King's Beautiful, which has been a bit of an anthem for me for some time.

You've got to get up every morning with a smile on your face
And show the world all the love in your heart
Then people gonna treat you better
You're gonna find, yes, you will
That you're beautiful as you feel

Now, believe you me, I know that it's not easy to wake up with a smile, when your life is what it is. I know what it's like to wake up when there's nothing to wake up for. What it's like to wake up when your body refuses to cooperate. What it's like to wake up when you feel like sleep just never even happened. What it's like to wake up and want to go back to sleep, curl up under those covers and just stay there, and escape back into dreamland.

Up Down Up Down

Another day, another song. Blue October's Jump Rope.

The first time I heard this song, I cried. Seriously. Let me put it in context. I'd been in Cincinnati for about a week, getting started on a 6 week training course - the longest I have EVER been away from my child. There was an instant connection with several of my colleagues, and the group had really started to gel. Being a Montessori training, there was certainly an openness to the experience, and more than a little bit of the touchy-feely to go around.

The previous night, my son had called me, because he was taking his first trip overseas. 7 years old, and on his way to beautiful Scotland with his Dad and Stepmom. Needless to say, I was a bit off kilter, emotionally speaking; as I walked into class that morning, it was with the all-too-present awareness that my baby was somewhere over the ocean, on his way to a great adventure. The butterflies in my stomach didn't stop flapping until he called again later that day, safely landed on the other side of the world.

No Regrets

I'm having a rough day. I can barely move. I want to sleep all day. I overdid it yesterday, and today I'm paying the price.

The song that's running through my head today, keeping me sane, and reminding me that guilt is a useless emotion is Robbie William's No Regrets.

No regrets they don't work
No regrets they only hurt
Sing me a love song
Drop me a line
Suppose it's just a point of view
But they tell me I'm doing fine

It's funny, because when I saw my doctor last week, she told me to remember that setbacks are a normal part of this illness, and not to get down about them. Today has been a huge setback.

Do I regret it? No. What I did yesterday was totally worth it. I saw a good friend who's going through a rough time. Met some interesting people through her. Was enjoying myself so much, that I lost track of time, and only realized how long I'd been out when it was already too long. Is that a bad thing? I don't think so. I think it's a good sign, actually. I think by not focusing on my condition, and behaving like a healthy person would under the circumstance, I forgot for a little while just how sick I really am. There was a moment in time that I could be healthy. It felt great.

Love Song for my Former Self

An old Shakira song came up on my ipod today, and it made me think not of the men I usually think of when I hear love songs, but of my old self. The one I've been grieving. You know, the one with energy to spare, chasing the wind.

El cielo esta cansado ya de ver la lluvia caer

Y cada dia que pasa es uno mas parecido ayer

No encuentro forma alguna de olvidarte porque

Seguir amandote es inevitable.

The sky is tired of watching the rain fall

And every day goes by much the same as yesterday

I can't find any way of forgetting you because

To keep on loving you is inevitable. 
(The translations in this post are literal translations, not her English version, which is linked below, because the words are different enough that I don't know that I would've felt the same way)

Pearl Jam's Just Breathe

Again, with the songs. This time, the one that won't go away is Just Breathe, from Pearl Jam's Backspacer - one of the best albums I've ever heard. This is the song Vedder said is the closest he's come to writing a love song. And yet, it's more about the quality a of life than it is about romantic love itself.

Although the song is overtly about dying and romantic love, there are lines that resonate really really strongly, even though my illness is thankfully not life-threatening and I have no significant other.  The song has been twirling more in head recently, as I've been reflecting about how lucky I am to have people to lean on and how much we all share the basic stories, pain and joy that is living (related posts: On the Village, Here's to Good Friends, Everybody's Got a Story, Gracias a la Vida, Celebrating the Bestest of my Best Friends).

I'm a lucky man to count on both hands the ones I love

I'm even luckier than the man in the song, because it would take both my hands and feet, and those of a few other people as well. I've got an amazing network of fantastic people with whom I share unconditional love. It wasn't always so, and it took me a long time to realize that my own actions and attitudes played a big part in my isolation, and are what now draw good people to me. When I started to really examine how I related to other people, patterns emerged, that I worked hard to change on my end. The people I related to had no choice but to allow the relationship to evolve or to dissipate. I am grateful that so many grew with me and allowed me to grow closer to them. And this is a great segue to the next verse:

Esto De Jugar a La Vida

I'm on a roll with songs. Lately, I've found that the ideas I've been writing about here are strongly echoed in the songs that have a tendency of sticking in my head.

This time, the one that's running through my head is one of my Dad's favourites: Esto de Jugar a la Vida, by Enrique Balleste (as I just found out - I always thought Amparo Ochoa wrote it, because hers is the only version I've ever heard). My father loves music, he loves lyrics, he loves poetry. I remember sitting so many times and listening to his music, him speaking the words to me, or reading poems together. It was because of him that I became aware of the differences between Spanish and English, in how words are used, how they can be put together. There are some things that just sound better in Spanish. This song has to be one of them.

We used to listen to the whole thing, but the chorus became our "thing." It is what we sing to each other in times of disappointment, or pain.

Esto de jugar a la vida, es algo que a veces duele.

How do you translate that? Something like: Playing this game of life is a thing that sometimes aches. It doesn't read as well. But the meaning is there. Life can be a painful game to play.

Gracias a la Vida

My doctor was a little bit surprised that I'm not depressed. It's a very common co-morbidity with any illness that leaves one housebound. We humans are by nature social creatures. We need the interaction with others of our kind. When that desire is gone, it's a sure sign of trouble. When ability to socialize is taken away, it tends to lead to trouble.

Several years back I realized how much there was in my life that was good. I learned how to be grateful. In practicing gratitude, it became apparent that just by being grateful, I was happier. Taking on the 'attitude of gratitude' is one way of staying positive, and acknowledging my dependence on things and people around me in a way that is not debilitating, but empowering.

When my parents turned 60 and 64, I surprised them both by singing in public (Unheard of. I just don't. I know. I should. But I don't.) - I sang my Mom's favourite song of all time - Gracias a la Vida. Thanks to Life. Today, my mom went off to school with a carefully constructed alphabet costume, which reminded us of that song:

Everybody's Got a Story

I'm not an Amanda Marshall fan. Never have been. But the chorus to this one song of hers just moves me so deeply...

So you can see my bra underneath my shirt
Watch the wind underneath my skirt
But that ain't the picture it's just a part
Everybody's got a story that can break your heart.

See my eyes, don't see what I see.
Touch my tongue, don't know what tastes good to me.
It's the human condition that keeps up apart,
Everybody's got a story that could break your heart.

The invisibility of my illness - the constant comment "you look great" "you don't look sick" "I'd never be able to tell by looking at you" - really brings this home for me. You can't tell by looking at me how sick I really am. Not unless you really really know me, and are really really observant. If you can see the slight lilt of my head, or the stillness of my hands, or the tiny slump in my shoulders that aren't there when I'm feeling good, then - and only then - is it visible. Otherwise, you can't see it.

And I'm sure as heck not the only one