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Jan. 20th, 2006 01:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stormdogWork today is pretty dead. I've had one actual phone call all day (which, in perfect accordance with the operating principles of the world, came right in the middle of eating lunch) so I've been catching up on administrative stuff all day. I still haven't found time to put the stuff together that I need to do this week for my three primary objectives this quarter, so I'll probably get that done this afternoon.
But anyway, over the course of the morning, I listened to two Beatles albums: Abbey Road and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. Having played Revolver yesterday, I was out of full albums, so I queued up George Harrison's My Sweet Lord.
On my first day on this job, I was terrified of not having the necessary skills, or not having the right personality, or offending people by not recognizing them, or screwing up in some other, entirely unanticipated, way. I was listening to The Drive on the way down and, because I had purposefully left over half an hour early, had time after I arrived to park in the lot of the unoccupied building across the road and try to get lost in the music, get my breathing a bit more under control, and relax. The last song that came on before I had to go in was My Sweet Lord.
It was one of those odd instances where I'd heard bits of the song before and knew what I was hearing, but I'd never really paid much attention to it before. But at that moment, it was the perfect song; it was exactly what I needed to hear. As George played on, I found my eyes misting while I chanted "hallelujah, krishna, krishna" along with the music and, as the song ended, I found that I was calm; at peace. I was able to go walk inside and begin my first corporate salaried job without danger of stressing myself into uselessness; a big step forward from where I'd been a few minute ago.
Every time I hear My Sweet Lord it reminds me of my first day here and of how I got through it. It reminds me of how to look a terrifying situation in the eye and calmly go on into it because it has to be done and worrying isn't going to make it any better. I wish I could retain that clarity of thought all the time. It's something that I could do much better at.
As I listened today, I thought about looking for actual Buddhist hymns (are there such things? Despite calling myself a Taoist, I am embarrassingly ignorant of such things) to listen to. It seemed to me that they would be calming too. And then I tried to decide why that thought had come to mind. I don't consider myself a part of any organized religion. I don't even necessarily believe in God as a discrete concept. Why then do I find the concept of listening to songs of spirituality appealing?
Maybe it's because when I listen to music, it's far enough separated from individual people and individual beliefs that I can enjoy it just for intent. There isn't a preacher or a minister or a shaman or a philosopher or a high priestess imposing their beliefs and dogma on me. There is simply a beautiful sound, created out of respect for whatever higher power may be out there, that I can listen to and, for whatever way it may relate to me and my beliefs, accept and appreciate. It's even easier when it's a language I don't know. I listen to the music and the sounds of the foreign words and sentences and simply understand that this is something crafted out of respect for existence. There's a magical purity of spirit there that, too perfect to be contained in mere words, can only exist in intent and magnificent abstract expression. Maybe you can only really listen to the words you can't hear.
But anyway, over the course of the morning, I listened to two Beatles albums: Abbey Road and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. Having played Revolver yesterday, I was out of full albums, so I queued up George Harrison's My Sweet Lord.
On my first day on this job, I was terrified of not having the necessary skills, or not having the right personality, or offending people by not recognizing them, or screwing up in some other, entirely unanticipated, way. I was listening to The Drive on the way down and, because I had purposefully left over half an hour early, had time after I arrived to park in the lot of the unoccupied building across the road and try to get lost in the music, get my breathing a bit more under control, and relax. The last song that came on before I had to go in was My Sweet Lord.
It was one of those odd instances where I'd heard bits of the song before and knew what I was hearing, but I'd never really paid much attention to it before. But at that moment, it was the perfect song; it was exactly what I needed to hear. As George played on, I found my eyes misting while I chanted "hallelujah, krishna, krishna" along with the music and, as the song ended, I found that I was calm; at peace. I was able to go walk inside and begin my first corporate salaried job without danger of stressing myself into uselessness; a big step forward from where I'd been a few minute ago.
Every time I hear My Sweet Lord it reminds me of my first day here and of how I got through it. It reminds me of how to look a terrifying situation in the eye and calmly go on into it because it has to be done and worrying isn't going to make it any better. I wish I could retain that clarity of thought all the time. It's something that I could do much better at.
As I listened today, I thought about looking for actual Buddhist hymns (are there such things? Despite calling myself a Taoist, I am embarrassingly ignorant of such things) to listen to. It seemed to me that they would be calming too. And then I tried to decide why that thought had come to mind. I don't consider myself a part of any organized religion. I don't even necessarily believe in God as a discrete concept. Why then do I find the concept of listening to songs of spirituality appealing?
Maybe it's because when I listen to music, it's far enough separated from individual people and individual beliefs that I can enjoy it just for intent. There isn't a preacher or a minister or a shaman or a philosopher or a high priestess imposing their beliefs and dogma on me. There is simply a beautiful sound, created out of respect for whatever higher power may be out there, that I can listen to and, for whatever way it may relate to me and my beliefs, accept and appreciate. It's even easier when it's a language I don't know. I listen to the music and the sounds of the foreign words and sentences and simply understand that this is something crafted out of respect for existence. There's a magical purity of spirit there that, too perfect to be contained in mere words, can only exist in intent and magnificent abstract expression. Maybe you can only really listen to the words you can't hear.
