On the Nature of Daylight

When you listen to music, does your heart still open? It still happens for me on occasion that I am swept away with someone else's melody, someone else's version of beauty, and I am thankful for every song ever written that has transported me elsewhere. It happens less frequently now that I am older (or busier, perhaps?), but there are still songs that force my heart open, that expose my most raw and vulnerable self to the world. And at some moment in obsessively repeating a song over and over and over again, I cry. But the kind of crying I do to music, to the songs that expose my raw soul to the elements, is always a good cry and always essential. It hurts. Because life is both infinitely beautiful and painful in the same breath. And the part of me that can cry to a beautiful melody is often buried deeply in the melee of being alive, of having children, of attempting to make a living.

The infinite relatability of music is still earth-shattering to me. Sometimes, a song sneaks through to the masses and becomes universally beloved. The song from episode three of This Last of Us (On the Nature of Daylight by Max Richter) leaked its way to mass appeal after it aired in one of the most poignant moments in all of television history and everyone I know was abuzz with the genius of Richter. This song tells the listener a story; it is ecstasy and sorrow in the same breath. It feels like existing on this planet as a human being. It is the collapse of the world trade center and the bystanders who dug through rubble to help. It is the mama whale who carried her deceased baby around for 14 days. It is love and loss, growth and regression, sorrow and exhilaration in the same moment.

When I am transported by music, I have hope that the fundamental parts of my humanity still exist, though they may be in a temporary state of dormancy. I detest the idea of living a dull and tedious life. I don't want to be half present. I want to be all here for every brutal blow, every season of grief, and every sorrowful tear. And I want to celebrate with a full heart the wise words of my aunt who has carried me for so long, the absolute joy of motherhood, and the obscene fortune of being surrounded by a community who holds myself and our family with such delicacy and warmth.

The composers of these songs put the experience of life into melody. And sometimes, that written melody matches up so perfectly with our own existence, that we are transported into something much bigger and more connected than we are able to see living our own, isolated lives. We are reminded that, indeed, none of us walks these paths alone. And we are all inextricably and forever linked, united in our jubilation, sorrow, and celebration.