It All Started With a Red Stripe...

I’ve decided to take another prolonged break from studying to do some other types of research. I know I’m already doing research but in all honesty I care much more about the kind I am about to embark on over the next ten minutes.

It has occurred to me over the past few years that when I listen to music it ignites something inside me, something deep, something substantial. This something is hard to find words for, as you I’m sure may have already noticed. But it’s a dynamic part of who I am. It’s one of the reasons I’ve decided to commit to playing the guitar because there is a part of me, an earnest and sincere part of me, that can no longer express what my heart longs to scream on the end of a pen. I love writing and during different times it is the only outlet for my thoughts and prayers that will do. But there is some sort of mystery that music contains that I can’t explain…

For example, how do I explain the times when a certain song about nothing and everything can poetically put into sound my exact feeling, thoughts, and even my actions?

How can a song that is so openly devoted to a love for another person somehow captivate a piece of my heart for my Lord?

How can a story about a drummer from a particular band’s last performance bring me to tears when I heard that the band turned around and played the last song facing him, looking into his eyes as they held memories open during that euphoric last few notes?

How is it that when I find myself alone in my room with a pair of white plastic discs over my ears, I feel as though I can fly. I feel as though I am invincible. I feel as though I never want to leave.

How is it that when I hear a twenty second clip of a certain song I get motivated to the point of running until collapse. I don’t even know what they are saying in the song, but I do know what it does to my insides. They speak the same language.

I recently went on a trip to Portland to watch my new friend Tom Delong play some notes on his guitar. It was fantastic in a whole assortment of ways. But over the twenty-hour trip there, I was crammed in a vehicle with four other guys who understood what I am talking about above. We laughed, we cried, we screamed, we whispered, and we most certainly played a mean air guitar.

Music was our mode of transportation.

I ask my folks all the time if they “hear” that when I play them a song. They return blank empty looks and reply politely, “yes”. They miss it. It’s not their fault and it’s not a bad thing either. It’s just something that’s not inside them.

I’m tempted to quote the sports drink commercial here and ask my question in a way that will be parallel to shameless promotions, but instead I’ll end off in a slow, tapered like way and ask…

Do you hear what I hear?