Everything is Everything

Friends, brothers and sisters, let's just say, today was just one of those days. I woke up and unpacked, listening to every single PJ Harvey album I owned and ended the day on the treadmill staring straight into the anonymous face on the opposing treadmill with Danny Hathaway. One thing you should know: right before I cry, I feel like I am going to sneeze. And let's just say, I spent the entire day feeling like I was going to sneeze. I could blame the miserable weather, daylight savings, the state of the union, the liver cleanse I am trying out, my hangover this morning (yes, that's right those last two decidedly do not go together), or just the unfortunate combination of things. I could blame myself: my doubts about the move I just made, my guilt about not working, my insecurities about oh, fill-in-the-blank. Or I could blame God if only I thought he was somewhere out there. Friends, brothers and sisters, not even my new haircut could lift my spirits.

Which brings me back to Danny Hathaway. Because sometimes all we have is music. The closest we can get to god, heaven, or hell. The closet I can get when my misery wants company. The best explanation when I have none, is often someone else's. Does that make any sense? Does it make any sense that when Hathaway sings to be young gifted and black, my noise starts to twitch? Does it make any sense that when I hear that chorus of voices shout out everything is everything my heart simultaneously breaks and then mends itself? I ask you: does it make any sense any of it?

Today, the word of the day that was found in my inbox, was gestalt. I thought it rather ominous. The definition given was: most often used in psychology to describe a theory or approach which aims to see something as a whole rather than breaking it into separate parts. But all I read was breaking and separate parts. I think you get what I am trying to say here. Every now and again a day comes and it just gets you down. And everything that happens in that day seems proof of how horrible or ugly or difficult things really are. Nothing helps except the day ending. The sun setting, the moon rising, the pillows calling. Nothing helps except to sit and wade it out. Next time, it will be someone else's turn. But for now, I'm gonna turn down the sheets, close my eyes, and listen to my gospel.

P.S. I look exactly the same.