Prologue (7-9): Play Me Some Soul Music

One thing that marks ongoing life, a life being lived, is sound: clatter, the whirring buzz of the dishwasher, pounding feet on pavement, air passing over and under the wings of an aircraft, children's laughter, a teapot whistling. Life is full of sound, and sometimes those sounds reach deep into the soul. Fondly, I recall the six-year-old feeling of comfort and safety in Saturday morning sounds, moving life--a hairdryer and the soft buzz of conversation.

November brought me a soul-awakening experience with sound--sounds sung to me, sounds of fireworks exploding, and sounds of my own voice, combined with those around me, melting into unison. Work took me to Orlando in early November, and the conference I attended took me to Epcot. There, amidst crowds of strangers, I tossed a coin (thunk) in Italy's Trevi Fountain, and made my way to the Stage of America, where, by happenstance, my friend and I discovered Richard Marx performing within five minutes of our arrival. Somewhat skeptical of a grand performance, we sat in the back benches so as to leave quietly. We stayed for the whole performance.

Marx's arrival on stage wasn't just about throwing out a few songs. It was about presence, performance, sharing, and yes, even love. As performer and audience exchanged words, a reciprocal relationship developed that transcended usual societal barriers. He wanted to hear us sing to him, again and again. That's what has stuck with me all these weeks. Audience became performers and performer, audience. Everything felt so human and so connected in that stadium on that night--Marx and my friend, Mandy, and that child on the second row, brought together by music.

In Annie's experience with music, she sees her father "snapping his fingers [...] and shaking his head, to the record--'Li'l Liza Jane'--the sound that was beating, big and jivey, all over the house" (9). In the book, Dillard particularly observes her father snapping the fingers of both hands, as if one just wouldn't be enough to play the pulse of life or match the feeling of the music. The beat of music, big and jivey, can ring through our lives, inspire us, move us from pits of despair, engage us in action, or make us feel unbelievably comfortable in our own skin for what becomes breathtaking moments. Lately, I use it in prolific fashion for all these outcomes. I listen over and over to The Bravery and Keane. I take the kids and we dance, spinning through the house as I'm weaving soulful stories from the tunes and melodies of other artists.

As Annie's father lets the music move through him, he stands "in the wind between the buckeye trees [...] looking up at what must have been a small patch of wild sky" (7). Similarly, I give up sleep to go out on windy, cold mornings and run through the black and empty streets. I pass a largely waving tree with a split branch. Life is busy, crazy.... but with the music in my ears and my feet on the pavement, worries slip away, movement and life are concentrated in one, and I'm shooting forward; I'm moving to the beat; I'm slipping away from the task-driven concrete; something is piercing my soul. The sun rises over the horizon, every truth melds into one and hits me inside. I understand where I've been, where I am, where I'm going. I reach inside my jacket pocket to my iPod and replay the song.



Next time--Prologue (9-11): Road Trip