Take a sad song and make it better...
My daughter is in a summer band program this year. The chosen theme? Classic rock.
I happen to think it's pretty fantastic.
Well, all of it except for one song that tears my heart into tiny little bits. Hey, Jude.
My Mom's name was Judy. For the entirety of my life, that song has just been connected to her. She used to joke that she was pretty sure that they wrote it for her, and though I'm fairly certain that isn't the case, the lyrics always did seem to apply to her more than the average person. When I hear the song now, I think of her and all that she struggled with in this world.
I haven't told my daughter any of this, of course, because I promised myself a long time ago that I was going to do the very best I could to avoid encumbering the childhoods of my children with the baggage of the generations before them. I don't want them growing up with emotional attachments to things that have nothing to do with them. I just don't.
Of all the songs she has sheet music for in this summer program, the one she's spent the most time practicing, is, of course, Hey, Jude.
Of course it is.
I'm sure that when they have their performance of this song sometime next week, I'll be sitting in the audience with tears in my eyes when this song is played. I know this about myself.
And it is June.
The thing about having lost as much as I have in the past few years is that there are few times in the year that don't hold some reminder of what is gone. Of what was and is no more. June has a few days in particular that creep up on me and sting.
Father's Day is one of them.
I tend to go a little overboard on Father's Day with things for my husband. I take oh I don't need anything as a challenge. I don't want to do anything special just isn't an option.
I need to be busy, I need to concentrate on him because my father is gone. And it's weird, these holidays. It would be nice if there was a way to just wipe these days off the calendar when they don't mean what they used to, what they are supposed to.
Instead, there will be the reminders soon enough. The rows and rows of cards in the grocery stores. The commercials on television. The ads in the newspaper. The poignant stories shared online. All reminders that he isn't here anymore.
I've been accused of being melodramatic more than once in these past few years. I take what most people say with a grain of salt, particularly when they are criticizing me, particularly when those doing the criticizing dwell in a world where their parents still exist.
Don't judge a path you haven't walked. Don't judge the person walking that path you don't understand. Don't accuse someone of feeling too much or being too sad.
I'm rambling, I know. I just have been feeling like I needed to let some of these thoughts out of my head. I write them not to ask for support or understanding or sympathy. I don't expect anyone to do or say anything. I don't. I just need to set them free.
And I need to go work this out.
We had 8 tons of rock delivered this week, and we've been working on moving it a little bit at a time. I'm grateful for the distraction. I'm grateful for the physicality of it. I'm grateful for the mindless production.
I'm one of those people who truly requires physical movement to work through stress and depression and anxiety. Wallowing just makes it worse. I need to get outside and sweat. I need to work until I have blisters and aches and pain.
And I'm grateful that I have this place where I can let the thoughts out, even if occasionally someone who doesn't understand tells me I'm dramatic.
You aren't so bad, are ya?
Nah, nah, nah, na-na-na-nah, na-na-na-nah, Hey Jude.
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