I love country music. I really do. Let me tell you why.
This morning, as I was waiting for our morning activity to open up, we were just hangin’ in the house. It was going pretty well until I could feel the crankies start to creep in. Come on… you moms out there know exactly what I’m saying. It’s a little squabble over a toy that is usually peaceful or a gesture that’s usually taken as play, but causes tears this particular time. Independently, those incidents don’t mean much. Combined, you know that you’re doomed if you don’t act quickly and strategically.
It was time to save the room with some music.
I love music. Always have. I actually love most kinds of music in existence, just not all at the same time. Everything has its moment. I even love a little Raffi or Wiggles when I am totally immersed in mom mode. But this morning, I was only partially in mom mode and I needed a little adult to keep me sane. So I went for the country. Yee haw! My kids love music almost as much as I do, especially my son. I have no way of knowing if they love it for its own value, if they love it for the elevated mood it brings out in me (logically improving my patience and parenting skills) or if it’s really some combination.
The first country to appear on the alphabetized list on the iPod was Brad Paisley, and he was a fine choice. I hit play and the mood evened out beautifully. Ahhh. Contented sigh. I danced while I finished some dishes and they played contentedly once again.
Here’s why I love country music. It has soul. It has content. It has depth. I mean REAL depth. I can appreciate the modern dance music with the best of them, but it doesn’t really say anything worth hearing. Its true value is in the rhythm of the music and the release you get from moving to it. The lyrics… well… let’s just say they’re there to fill space. All they discuss is sex, really. And while I have no objection to the discussion of sex in music, I’d like the lyrics to move beyond that topic as well. I mean really, how much of life’s relationships is really occupied by sex anyway? If your life has any real substance, the number ought to be somewhat low and should probably cluster in specific moments. (In my humble opinion, of course) Country music, however, is like a sociological thesis in 3 minutes. A melodic short story. It’s fantastic. Irreplaceable.
One of Brad Paisley’s songs is about a boy who misrepresents himself in internet chat rooms. In real life, he’s a sweet, smart, overweight 15 year old that gets his snacks made by his adoring mom. Online, he’s a suave, sexy, 30 something with multiple homes, fast cars and a bangin’ six pack. I have to laugh, its every teenage boys dream. Made me remember my teens, although my perspective came from the feminine angle.
The song that really hit me, however, talked about Brad (presumably) writing a letter to his 17 year old self, assuring him that life would get better and that he would survive this epidemic called the teenage years. He updates his younger self on future events, reassuring him that he will pass chemistry (and not get killed by mom and dad). That he will get married, have kids, and that high school will be but a fuzzy and sometimes endearing memory. He reminds his young self to show appreciation for those that are helping him along his way and to value family members that may or may not live to a ripe old age.
And I got to thinking…
Wouldn’t that be nice? To get a letter from yourself during a particularly difficult time. I can think of a few times in my life that I would appreciate the value of such a letter. Just before I graduated college, such a letter would have given me comfort, convinced me that my lack of clear, future professional vision would not cause me to be a lifelong failure. So many of my friends knew exactly what they wanted. Or at least they thought they did. I was clueless and terrified. I would have adored knowing that my winding path to insight brought me the wisdom I needed to get myself where I am now professionally. And I like where I am now, it’s a great place to be.
Personally, at home with two young toddlers, a letter from the future self would be of high value. Documentation consoling me that I would reconnect more my profoundly with my inner self and that occasional adult tantrums didn’t wreck my children’s self esteem would be downright lovely. I’m not always as patient as I would ideally like to be and seeing that my “oops” moments didn’t do too much damage would be a comfort.
Wouldn’t that be splendid?
Guess we’ll all just have to go with faith. Well, that is until they create time travel.
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