30 before 30 :: the songs

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These are the defining songs of the last decade of my life.

They aren’t necessarily my favorites. There’d be some overlap but, mostly, that would be a different list. These are the songs that shaped me, that found a spot in my heart and stayed. These are the songs I have a visceral reaction to — they bring me back to moments, remind me of places, or make me think of humans who, even if they’re not in my life anymore, helped create who I am.

There’s Hamilton. Of course. For half of this decade, I listened to this album more than anything else. I know every word and I worked embarrassingly hard to be able to kind of rap ‘Guns and Ships.’ I sobbed to ‘Burn’ in the back corner of a theatre in Chicago, fresh off the biggest heartache of my decade. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing or where I am, ‘Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story’ will make me cry every time. This musical has pushed me to write, create, and take chances I didn’t think I could (or should).

There are the songs from college: ‘I Won’t Give Up’ is a song I can’t *stand* now but was all I listened to when my college boyfriend and I broke up. ‘Call Me Maybe’ brings me back to the middle of the crowded Old Broadway dance floor, buzzed on Wonder Woman shots and hoping I’d run into Cute Justin, my rebound crush. ‘Some Nights’ reminds me of the endless runs that Megan and I went on the summer before our senior year, and the talks we had as we tried to sort through what the hell we were going to do with our lives.

There are the Portland songs: ‘This Is The Beginning’ is Steph and I in our empty apartment, before we brought in our haphazardly-assembled furniture and before we made a life in that city. ‘There Will Be A Light’ is sitting in the pews at Salt & Light Lutheran Church, a building that became my community.  ‘Rivers and Roads’ is my final drive away from Portland, through the Columbia Gorge when I wondered what the hell might be waiting for me in Minnesota.

There are the songs that accompanied me on the big lessons of this decade: ‘The Climb’ reminds me that I shouldn’t run a half-marathon if I haven’t run a single mile in a long while. And that I don’t actually like running long distances at all. ‘Give Me Everything’ by Pitbull and ‘Bitch, I’m Madonna,’ ironically, remind me about deep friendship and the lifesaving role of my circle. ‘Heavy’ reminds me not to abandon myself for anyone or anything that makes me feel inferior.

I could add 31 more songs to share stories about from this decade. I could make lists of lyrics or books or quotes or places or even the food I’ve consumed that’s somehow shaped me these last ten years. Maybe I will, and maybe you should too, even if you’re not turning 30 on April 1st. If anything, this exercise has reminded me that everything has purpose. I believe it’s all part of shaping who we are, even if it feels small or insignificant at the time.

When I listen to ‘I Can Change’ on repeat for a month straight? That’s probably going to help me believe that I’m capable of change. When I reread ‘Tiny Beautiful Things’ every year? Those words are going to stick close to me and come to me when I need some wisdom. The fact that I’ve had the same salad for most weekdays of the past four years? Well, at least I’m getting my vegetables. It all stays with us, inside of us somewhere.

And. One last thing. It’s not a fair question to ask of myself, and yet, my very favorite song on this list? ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’ by Whitney Houston. There are so many core moments from the past ten years connected to this song: it’s been my karaoke selection in so many cities, singing my heart out to a crowd of strangers and watching them sing along with me. It’s the song I dance to in my bathroom as I get ready for an exciting or hard day. It’s an immediate mood booster when I hear it out in the world, like in the grocery store or in the middle of a workout class.

And while this song is lighthearted, its words are also a reminder of a journey I’ve been on this past decade. Because I do wanna dance with somebody, and I do want to find someone who loves me. But another journey I’ve been on in my 20s? I’ve learned how to love and dance with myself — and that’s been just as worthwhile.

arrows.

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When I was 24, I got two tattoos: a list of latitude and longitude coordinates on my right shoulder blade and an arrow on my right arm. It’s always easy to explain the first one; they are tangible numbers that translate into a spot on a map, tied to time periods in my life when I called that place home. I like answering questions about that one — it’s concrete, specific, and makes sense even to people who don’t like or understand tattoos. There’s not much wondering or meaning-making you have to do to get its purpose on my body.

The arrow though? That one’s always hard to explain, and my answer changes every time someone asks about it. Sometimes I got it because you have to pull an arrow back before letting it go. Sometimes I got it because I heard that Kasey Musgraves song where she told us to follow our arrows, and I thought it was cheesy but in a good, true way.

But if you asked me right now I would say I have this tattoo as a reminder. (Aren’t they all?) I want to remember (and believe) that I can point myself in a direction and go. Not just point myself to new places to travel or to new jobs or new hobbies; those tangible things that show up in our calendars or our camera rolls or, sometimes, on our bodies as tattoos. I want to remind myself that I can bravely move toward the indefinable things that make up the parts of each day — the relationships and vocations and goals and the things I journal about, the hopes I whisper to my closest circle, the swirly truths I know but can’t always say.

I want to remind myself that when I want or need or deeply feel something, I can thrust myself fully toward that hard, wild, brave thing. And that I can trust that I will land where I need to.

Ask me tomorrow, maybe it’ll be different. For now, my tattoo is like me in this picture: looking ahead, courage coming breath by breath.

gratitude is hard.

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"But grace can be the experience of a second wind; when even though what you want is clarity and resolution, what you get is stamina and poignancy and the strength to hang on."
-Anne Lamott, Help Thanks Wow

"I will extol you, O Lord, for you have drawn me up, and did not let my foes rejoice over me.
O Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me.
Sing praises to the Lord, O you his faithful ones, and give thanks to his holy name.
Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.
You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, so that my soul may praise you and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever."
-Excerpts of Psalm 30, NRSV

It started when I gave up chocolate for Lent.

It was my sophomore year of college, and 19-year-old me didn't think that Jesus cared too much about my abstention from Snickers or cupcakes. But I liked the idea of doing something that marked the season of lament and silence. Of looking through the world, and my life, through a different lens. I wanted to do something that showed God's love, especially to those about whom I cared so deeply - friends, family, mentors, past connections. So, after a purchase of some cute notecards on sale from Target, I decided to add something to my Lenten practice: letters.

Letters of thanks.

For 40 days, I removed myself from the typical millennial method of communicating and physically scripted letters of gratitude to the people and world around me. Sometimes I’d write as soon as I woke up in the morning, excited to remind my grandmother just how much her constant reminders of love lifted me up. Sometimes I’d write before I went to sleep, the last thoughts of my day a written prayer to my 10th grade English teacher, who inspired and mentored me to read books that challenged my perspectives.

The first year was easy. My expressions of gratitude were nice and neat. I wrote to friends who loved me, teachers who supported me, family who believed in me. The next few years were a bit harder. Have you ever written a thank you letter to the sun? How do you tell the the Earth beneath your feet, “Thank you for being there"? Can I ever fully express my love and appreciation and utter amazement for the woman who raised me on her own, my mother?

But then, this year. I felt the lament and pain in the world in a much deeper way than I had before. I wondered and often doubted how I would express gratitude every single day. There seemed to be more things that I grappled with and debated being thankful for than what I actually was grateful for. So, I called on that.

I wrote to my absent father. I wrote to the Church that caused (and sometimes still causes) me confusion. I wrote to myself. Not letters of anger or blame or revenge. Letters of gratitude.

Gratitude isn’t always easy. It isn't always nice and neat. Sometimes, the only way to encounter gratitude is to cry out, "Help!" and accept God’s healing—in whatever way that shows up—and to try to be thankful for what appears. 

Gratitude is hard. It is messy. But it is there.

These letters forced me to call upon grace. The last thing I wanted to do was write, “Thank you, Dad, for giving me life. Thank you, Church, for opening a space of questioning and discovery. Thank you, me, for being.” But those were the prayers of gratitude I needed to speak and share. They were my reality; they were my life. Like it or not, I was able to find something in the muck that caused me to say, "Thanks." It might have been buried deep down under great lament, and it might have required a little imagination, but it was there.

I had found my second wind. 

God doesn’t always answer our desires to express gratitude in the way we want. Sometimes God uses our cries for help as opportunities for unexpected gratitude. To channel the stamina and poignancy and the strength to hang on. The weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes in the morning. God turns our mourning into dancing. Maybe not in the way we expect, but in a way that only God can.

O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever.