I’ve been listening to a lot of Dolly Parton songs recently. She’s been in the news a bit recently and has released a new Christmas album, and has had some shows and movies made about her as well. I’ve had a lot of free time, so I’ve watched the documentaries and interviews of her, and grown to admire her more than before. Not only does she give back to people, but she has written thousands of songs. The more I listen to these songs, the more poetic they become. I realize a few days ago that she must write pretty much anything that pops into her head.
When I had that thought, I then wondered why I don’t write at least half of what’s in my head. Her song “The Grass is Blue” has stayed with me during this season of my life. The lyrics talk about how she has to “pretend that the opposite’s true” in order to make it without the person she’s singing about. “Rivers flow backwards / Vallies are high” paints the exact image in my head of what my heart feels. The words “I’m perfectly fine / And I don’t miss you / The sky is green / And the grass is blue” makes my heart feel the need to quiver in fear because lyrics have just exposed my emotion’s truth.
I’m great at hiding. When I was a kid and played manhunt, I was pretty good because I could sit quietly, going unnoticed by others. I’m still good at that, but in more “grown up” settings. I usually sit at the back of the class. I don’t talk much. I hide.
Almost everyone I’ve talked to about my Dad’s passing says I’ve been doing great at keeping it together. And maybe I have been able to do better than some at that. But nobody can read my mind, not without me sharing my thoughts. That’s scary to do because there are cruel people who just like to criticize everything, even sometimes without realizing they’re doing it. I don’t want anyone to see my weak side. I’m not made of glass, I’m tough as nails. I don’t have insecurities, others do and I help them work through those. I’m the one who fixes, not the one usually to be fixed. My problems are not anyone else’s problems, even though many ask to help with my problems.
The beautiful part of literature (all forms) that I’ve continued to enjoy is the feeling of knowing you’re not alone. Someone else has lied to themselves about their feelings (“Swans hate the water / And eagles can’t fly”). Someone else has had to say “And I will always love you” and talk about uncomfortable childhood memories as in Dolly’s “Coat of Many Colors.”
Who am I to keep these thoughts and words inside me when I could maybe help someone feel less alone? I feel as though I’ve been given spare change to donate to the poor, but instead I’ve kept it all for myself simply because I’m afraid of showing up to donate. If my words are terrible and are absolutely pointless for everyone who reads them, then I at least have tried. I no longer will feel as though I’m hoarding anything, but instead maybe I’ll feel that I’ve helped simply one person survive. That’s all I want when I share bits of my life with others—to help them, and like literature has done for me, help someone feel connected to others. Even if it’s connection by the most heartbreaking strings ever. You’re not alone.
Comentários