1. The other night I got home and turned on the benefit concert for fire victims in Los Angeles. I wanted to see if I might catch Stevie Wonder’s performance, or Sting’s, but there was Alanis Morissette on stage, just starting her song “Thank U.” A few verses in, I lowered myself to the couch.
I’d heard this song in the late 90s and liked it, but on this night I was riveted. Morissette’s genuine, powerful singing was part of it, the lyrics the other. If you don’t know the song, the chorus goes:
Thank you India
Thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence
Earlier in the day, I’d read the latest news headlines of this clobbering, frenzied era, and of course those images from the LA fires were still fresh in mind. Then, behind Morissette and her band, on a large screen, came some images of first responders during those fires.
Alone in my front room, my eyes filled. It was one of those moments that suddenly hit us, and before we know it we’re in touch with a depth of feeling we sometimes wonder about, if it’s still in there somewhere.
I had never watched Alanis Morissette in concert and, my goodness. Presence, voice, humanity. But it was the song, and those lyrics, that transported me not only to the heart of the matter in these times, but back to the winter of 1993 when I was traveling with a friend in India.
In Calcutta we lucked into meeting Mother Teresa, who held our hands and said, “God bless you.” We walked across the Howrah Bridge through thick polluted air. We took in the city’s energy, glimpsed its layers, and then we also got sick. Food poisoning. It walloped us for a few days, but we recovered enough to travel on to Darjeeling, then to Nepal.
By the time we reached Pokhara, however, I’d developed a strange set of symptoms, including acute arthritis in my ankles and right wrist. I saw a local doctor, who was mystified, and soon I was unable to leave my bed. At this same time, my friend came down with typhoid fever. We were a mess.
In some moments, I was terrified. I was twenty-three, half a world away from home, in bed with sharp pains in my joints, here in a village at the base of the Annapurna Range. No internet. I did have my journal, my cassette player and headphones, and a couple of books, including The Snow Leopard and Anna Karenina.
For ten days I was in bed before we realized we needed to get to New Delhi to seek further medical attention. My friend had mostly recovered and, daily, found us takeout meals in Pokhara, so I had enough strength for the bus south.
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
At a clinic in New Dehli, a six-foot-five Sikh doctor told me that I had a rare condition known as Reiter’s Syndrome and I should go back home to get treatment, which would likely involve several cortisone shots.
I would be all right.
As I watched and listened to Alanis Morissette the other night, it all came flooding — those piercing, scary moments over thirty years ago, but also the stress of living in these fraught times, the stress we often push down into our bodies.
Yet “Thank U” carries joy and hope. And it reminds that hope is still all around us. There’s the acclaimed chef Daniel Shemtob who lost his house in Pacific Palisades, who has coped with his grief by handing out free burritos and quesadillas from his food truck. There are the public high school teachers with whom I work — and also my wife, who teaches middle school — who in spite of pressures coming at them from all sides, show up each day and give and give to their students, without expecting kudos.
We could all find many examples, daily. The symbols of goodness are everywhere, despite the stress.
Thank you to those who bring goodness, often in quiet ways, day after day after day.
2. Last weekend I was in the basement with my son, we were passing the soccer ball. We’ve done this from time to time since he was a wee lad.
As we passed, my son played one of his 80s mixes through his portable speaker and soon “Wrapped Around Your Finger” by The Police came on. My son said, “This just might be the best Police song,” and we began bantering about it, in particular Stewart Copeland’s masterful drumming. We decided that we love the last couple of minutes best.
“But what about ‘Walking on the Moon’?” I said. “I think that’s probably my favorite.”
The ball traveled back and forth across the carpet. Left foot, right foot. Some juggling at times.
My son’s almost eighteen, and in the fall he’ll be off at college somewhere. It’ll be a new stage of life indeed, with new soundtracks and old ones. For those old songs, when we need them, we’ll have a swell catalog to draw upon — songs that we both love, that are part of our family story. Our life stories.
We went on passing, listening, talking. There in a precious moment that could be easy to overlook if not for the state of mind that a resonant song can bring on.
In these times, we need moments of silence, to be sure. We also need moments that keep us in touch with groove and rhythm and soul. That put us in touch, after only a few bars, with the heart of the matter.
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