We don’t know gratitude as intimately as we could.
We simply just do not have the time or wherewithal to be present one hundred percent of all that time endows. It’s not a fault or failing, but a reality which should be taken with the same head-shake and good natured smile as falling down — pick up, dust yourself off, and keep going. Find your thanks.
This is something I wrote last month in a fit of whimsy and optimism after cascading down the rabbit hole of feelings that accompanies a new beginning one finds when single for the first in some time. The surge of hope, the denial of the simple truths, as if physics could bend to our will and the laws of gravity never applied. We fall, if for no other reason that to get back up better, and perhaps a bit more whole. Thank you gravity.
It’s the hardest of lessons and the most liberating of new beginnings. So I threw this into the world, invariably, in the same way I’ve created much of the music I’ve written, be it symphony or song — with as much hope as I could muster, and the honest attempt to foster something good. Connect in gratitude. Maybe hurt to breath a bit. Maybe share a moment I couldn’t hold, where it all filled to surplus, spilling o’er the brim and cascading into the only place I could find. Have you ever? Because I am certain we all have.
To be better than myself. Is that not the purpose? And with an acknowledgement to the future, a nod to the past that created us, and a strong desire to just be in the present, I have as much gratitude as could be given to a moment, knowing full well that love comes in cycles, moves deeply through us, beats and breathes around us, but is never without us and always present. The lie we tell ourselves is that we are alone, when really, even in our most traumatic of moments we are more together than ever. Grains of sand, stars, notes, and oceans — just because we can measure a distance between does not make us divided.
So I worked with some of the youngest among the most talented people I could find. Andy Stav, you are a legend. Born from Moses, old U2, ramble on, where is my mind, blood street, Alberta cross, and that unmistakable feeling from Ms Potters lullaby, I wrote and delivered a love letter to the future.
The hope of uplifting more than myself.
To put this into the universe.
For we aren’t terribly different or unique, and are more fragile than we care to admit. But whole, together, and connected, we are more capable than we can fathom. We do not need the assurance or the validation. We are. Such things are freedom in themselves.
I wrote this for you and for all. For every moment and place yet to have been shared. For the world at large and no one but ourselves to blame. As much in tears as in daydreams, for hereafter as much as for here and now.
So for the all to be given, I thank you in advance.
And in turn, you’re welcome.