The power of your playlist to rock personal growth

Music is the strongest form of magic – Marilyn MansonM

On a recent trip for work, I pulled out my old iPod, put in my headphones, and ended up somewhere else entirely. My flight was heading for New York. But my mind – and my emotions – were hijacked to a completely different place.

For years, the song “Umbrella” by Rihanna was the ringtone for my best friend and fellow Dirty Girl, Shirley Ramos. How conditioned I am, tying that song with that soul. Sitting in Logan Airport, responding to emails on my laptop as I wait to board my flight, I am suddenly a sloppy mess of tears. I am grateful that airports are typically pretty forgiving of sudden outbursts of emotion. And for the anonymity in crowds.

Of all the challenges and losses I faced in the past two years, this one is the one that still hurts the most.

I know that to change the song on the iPod and pull myself together is one option. But the moment is intense, and clearly, I need to be with it. So, I sit with my pain.

******

One Republic’s song “Good Life” is blasting through my earphones. I am no longer thinking about where I’m heading, but about my first year in Naples, when I uprooted my three kids from their cozy home in Central Massachusetts and brought them to the tropics of the Southwest Florida. How I promised them that this was the start of a new adventure, of something wonderful and fun.

And how my youngest was mad at me for nearly a year. And how my middle one discovered alligators, insisting on multiple trips to the canals outside of town to scout them. How my oldest bloomed from the girl mistaken for an unfed homeless child (I fed her, I swear) to an award-winning film-maker. 

I was right about the adventures and the start of something wonderful.  But it was so much more complicated than that.  There was so much more to come.

*****

Do I really have The Brothers Johnson on my iPod?

Fourth grade, Grew House apartment building, Tokyo. Top floor dance party hosted by all the building kids and indulgent parents.  My first experience at a dance. My first experiences with crushes on boys and drama between girlfriends. My “boyfriend”, Danny, won’t dance with me but is mad when I dance with Lance. I am bewildered by his outburst, but keep dancing. I don’t know any better. (Or perhaps I did…) I am in a dark room with disco lights, and we are all line dancing to Stomp! We range from ages seven to seventeen, and we are all strangers in a strange land, living together in an contained enclave of pseudo-American culture. The first time in my life I felt like I fit in with a social group.

*****

Blister in the Sun. On repeat. I am in my bedroom. I am seventeen and have been banned from all society as my body heals from hives the size of popped corn all over my torso. After multiple doctor visits and tests, it has been decided that my social life is the cause. Stress.

Did I mention I was seventeen? 

Three weeks of isolation. The Violent Femmes were my only social group. 

It worked. I re-integrated into high school but had to make some changes – some choices – and the hives never came back.

The Violent Femmes represent a time of utter peace to me.

*****

1985. Hair is shaved on one side, pink and permed on the other. We’re hosting a dinner party.  The embassy econ officer looks at me, looks at my dad, and says, “You’re ok with that?”

My dad looks at me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s not the usual rat’s nest she has going on. So yes, I’m ok with it.”

You Spin Me Right Round. Dead or Alive. I could have spun and dropped dead in that moment. It was almost approval.

*****

Living on my own, studying in Northern California, blasting “Wuthering Heights” and “Running Up That Hill” in my little white Nissan.  Driving to Berkeley Hills on Fridays to party with Gabrielle, driving back to Sonoma County on Monday mornings to make that 8am English class. Driving to Corte Madera for my first “real” job managing an art gallery after classes. I spent a lot of time in that Nissan. Whenever I see the rolling golden hills of Marin and Sonoma counties, dotted with dark green brush, I think of Kate Bush and the complex, beautiful and impossible songs that just pierced me.

*****

Sometimes we listen to songs out of time.

It doesn’t matter when they were produced, it matters when it crosses our lives.

A BirdHouse in Your Soul is inextricably linked to biscuits and gravy, Sunday mornings with the San Francisco Chronicle, and sharing a house with college roommates of such different personalities. They Might Be Giants is apt for the giant spirit who introduced the band to me, the giant soul sister who is Julie.

Def Leppard, my first ever live concert (a gift from my brother), and the inimitable Tori Amos got me through grad school. 

Sarah Brightman and Sarah McLaughlin carried me through some of the roughest parts of my marriage. I owe all the Sarahs in my life a lot.

Natalie Merchant and Elton John remind me of some of the best parts of my marriage, fixing up our first home, awaiting the birth of our first child. 

Matt Kearney’s “Ships in the Night” got me through many long runs as I processed a post-divorce love-affair betrayal that was beyond absurd.

We all have a soundtrack to our lives. As I sit, earphones intact, I am transported across time and through a kaleidoscope of emotions. I can’t think of a richer, faster way to reconnect with my past.

As I walk through LaGuardia, on the other end of my flight,  “Secrets” is in my ears. One of my favorites. How do you not love the truth that is Mary Lambert?

I’ve got bi-polar disorder
My shit’s not in order
I’m overweight
I’m always late
I’ve got too many things to say
I rock mom jeans, cat earrings
Extrapolate my feelings
My family is dysfunctional
But we have a good time killing each other

They tell us from the time we’re young
To hide the things that we don’t like about ourselves
Inside ourselves
I know I’m not the only one who spent so long attempting to be someone else
Well I’m over it

I don’t care if the world knows what my secrets are (secrets are)
I don’t care if the world knows what my secrets are (secrets are)
So-o-o-o-o what
So-o-o-o-o what
So-o-o-o-o what
So-o-o-o-o what

I can’t think straight, I’m so gay
Sometimes I cry a whole day
I care a lot, use an analog clock
And never know when to stop
And I’m passive, aggressive
I’m scared of the dark and the dentist
I love my butt and won’t shut up
And I never really grew up

They tell us from the time we’re young
To hide the things that we don’t like about ourselves
Inside ourselves
I know I’m not the only one who spent so long attempting to be someone else
Well I’m over it

I don’t care if the world knows what my secrets are (secrets are)
I don’t care if the world knows what my secrets are (secrets are)
So-o-o-o-o what
So-o-o-o-o what
So-o-o-o-o what
So-o-o-o-o what

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