This CD is the result of a lot of driving in the car, teary sessions in the papasan, introspection from the hammock, insomnia attacks, and ongoing observations of the world around me. This compilation has been growing for about a year, although the music spans decades. The songs represent fear, loneliness, and anger, as well as hope and the journey to peace and health. Sometimes the lyrics and chords evoke frustration at discovering a feeling so strong and wanting to burst for not knowing how to express it, hate it, love it, accept it, or be it. Music has always moved me this way. These pieces represent something that has happened in my head, in the group, or in my attempt to emerge from an inward journey and make connections with others—wanting both to understand and be understood. None of the tracks were selected for any specific person in our group. More they represent a cross section of things: memories, triggers, bits of conversation, pieces of stories, and themes we have chased together. The soundtrack to everyone’s life is different—these songs are a way of sharing a piece of myself with all of you, something I try to do in our Thursday Night Sessions, but cannot do so eloquently as these songwriters. The selections are annotated with thoughts or snippets of background information. I hope you enjoy the collection as much as I’ve enjoyed compiling it for you.
Love and Peace,
So Much Mine (The Story)
A song about mothers and daughters. We are told that, in some ways, we become the examples set for us. In our efforts to recover from our losses, we can become what we fear.
Goodnight Moon (Shivaree)
Fear. Plain and simple. Probably not a coincidence that it shares the name of a certain, rather benign childhood bedtime story. Sometimes everything seems scary.
Bury My Lovely (October Project)
Darkness, terror, and violation. Things no child should have to endure.
Longing & Loneliness
That Would Be Good (Alanis Morrisette)
Sometimes if feels like I’ll never be quite good enough.
Nada One (Heart)
For anyone who’s ever had a dream world so tempting that anything in the real world pales in comparison.
Dance Without Sleeping (Melissa Etheridge)
A growing anger. And the realization that the fear, longing, and loneliness will not be going away on their own.
Get Out of This House (Shawn Colvin)
An anthem for sweeping ghosts away.
You Suck (The Murmurs)
Petulant. Foul-mouthed. Do not play in the presence of children! Sometimes it just boils down to the blame and the rage. For all those who hurt us deeply.
The Road to Redemption
Blessed Are (Joan Baez)
When the haze of rage clears, there sparks empathy—for both self and others. Sometimes it seems as though we’re all linked in some cosmic way.
Nature of the Beast (The Samples)
This song was written about their first road tour. Without changing any of the words, it seems to fit a bigger, life journey. Patti is the one with the feather. We are a band of sorts, and we keep moving on. And I was kicked for reading.
Wish I Could (Marlee MacLeod)
Some days I just don’t get it. I wish I could.
Introspection (and hard work)
Onion Girl (Holly Cole)
Peeling back the layers is difficult. I don’t always understand or like what I find, let alone try to explain it to someone else. Sometimes I think I should have a warning label on my forehead.
What Do You Hear in These Sounds? (Dar Williams)
True (Concrete Blonde)
We always talk about trying to be Real. Sometimes I think of it as being True
Hope Springs Eternal
Everyday Glory (Rush)
This song makes me sob. That we can all rise phoenix-like from our tortured beginnings and become everyday heroes, achieving everyday glory.
Go (Indigo Girls)
There are so many Indigo Girls songs that stir the blood, examine the journey, and give voice to the struggle. This one says, “You go, girl!”
Crystal (Stevie Nicks & Sheryl Crow)
A return to the mountains and the sea. Although the journey is far from over, this seems like a good resting place for now.
Post Script: The cover art. I painted it in 1974—the fourth grade. Taken from a nature magazine, it’s a segment of a monarch butterfly’s wing. A portion of a much larger whole, it reminds me of the looking glass (mirror and magnifier) with which we must examine ourselves in our struggle to return to the fuzzy caterpillar days of childhood. From there we can rebuild our chrysalises and emerge healed and beautiful. It hangs in my home and is square, just the right shape for a CD jewel case, and just abstract and childlike enough to help represent how I feel on many Thursday nights.