“Why do we always lose our childlike faith/ the moment we attain our childhood dream?” A song about aging, moving west, failure that heals and progress that kills. And some other stuff I’m not sure about . . .
Take this song and shove it if you want to
Take this tune and turn it out of doors
These words are just a caffeinated frenzy
Scribbled on the napkin of your soul
I used to be a ballerina poet
Dancing through a rainbow-colored world
Now I dig for water in the desert
Jump for joy each time the thunder rolls
Oooh, I’m taking everything slow.
Oooh, how slow, how low can I go?
I rode out west to chase the infinite sunset
To swallow ghost towns whole inside my heart
To lose my old religion in the canyons
But morning always catches up with me
Oooh, I’m taking everything slow.
Oooh, how slow, how low can I go?
Hold that thought close to your unblinking mind
Watch how it withers right there on the vine
They’re taking applications for a mystery
They’re ticking off a transcendental(bucket)(l)ist
Here is a rough, incomplete recording of a new song – an old poem I just set to music. Couldn’t sing it all the way through without crying the first five or ten times. See how well you can do! The words seem super-sentimental unless you are nearing forty and find them connecting with some deep primal mother-ache that just might have something to do with only ever seeing God as father all your life, because no one ever gave you words like this before.
Here’s a new video of one of the songs from the album:
The album also features two previously-recorded songs, Annunciation and Oh Restless Night. Here are the videos we made for those in winters past. Annunciation is still one of my favorite videos we made, even though it was with our lower-quality camera and early in our days of making videos (and Nathan had an unfortunate ankle-cracking experience in the middle of filming):
In early June in Minnesota this year, it seemed we lived in a world of rain, a land of gray. I think we spent two continuous weeks under granite skies, and my nine-year-old daughter began to feel it in her light-hungry soul. The perpetual gloom, combined with the haunting bedtime thoughts about death and loss that are common to her age, brought an above-average precipitation of tears welling up from a previously-unplumbed depth of grief and questions in her being. We were packing to move across the country that month, far from the familiar hugs of grandparents, a thousand miles from the back doors of the neighbor girls she loved like sisters.
This girl was not my idea. I was not inclined towards having children, because although I have always adored babies, children (those little people who want birthday parties and sleepovers and repeat, “watch this!” over and over and interrupt intelligent conversations to repeat their favorite lines from inane movies and litter the world with cheap plastic toys and fingernail polish) are not my strong suit.
I was a child once. And this does give me a window on my own daughter’s childhood. But just as her birth was not my idea, neither is her self. As I wrote here, she is a whirlwind of imagination and action. My child self was a model of compliance. Trying to understand her most mystifying elements through the lens of my childhood too easily leads to comparison and value judgments.
But when I remember that Luthien was never my idea, and that her continuing unfolding is not my idea, I relax a little more into the One whose bright and colorful idea she is. I support, encourage, seek to inspire, educate, discipline, celebrate and love this inexplicable human, but she is not my grand idea to be worked out precisely the way I think best.
She is the apple of my eye and the stars in my night sky, but apples don’t feed eyes and stars at night don’t keep their beholder warm. My baby, my child, my girl came from me, changed and changes me, has marked me forever – and yet, she has her own road to travel, distinct from but ever intertwined with mine.
Here’s a song I wrote in those gray weeks in June.
Julia Bloom 