Humming

I am followed by a prolific and unconscious hum. It’s with me as I type this out. I might notice it behind the wheel of my car, or in cereal aisles. I don’t recognize the melodies; they are strings of random notes without key or time signatures. They are vibrations in my chest. I don’t know where they come from, but they feel very good. 

One of my favorite memories with my siblings (and one of the few I have of all three of us together) is of writing a song in the loft of a beach rental in the Carolinas. I played a Yamaha acoustic, two sizes too big for my 13-year-old body, and we sang in unison about a snake in the dark, giggling through rhymeless verses. 

I have written countless songs since then, with every trick in the book. I wrote every day for a year. I did the Artist’s Way (I still do my morning pages). I changed the tuning of my guitar, switched to the keyboard, switched back to the guitar. I listened to lots of music, and I stopped listening to music altogether. I wrestled with lyrics for days on end. I clenched my jaw at half-songs that refused to be whole. I have robbed many songs of life for being “too shitty.” It’s funny - most of the songs I like were written while I was doing something else. 

I have an appetite for the speed of arrival. It happens like this: I pick up a guitar and let my fingers go wherever they want, I mumble-sing over the chords until the sounds turn to words, then the words turn to phrases. In less than ten minutes, there is a new song. I am shocked and delighted. Now begins the reckoning with the subject material. 

Daniel came like this, more or less. I was on a walk in the woods. I found a big flat rock at the foot of a hill. I sat and stared at a group of friends bathing in the creek. He’s talking to the walls again, I hummed to myself. Then, about basketball and loneliness. Ahh, I thought. I know who this is about. 

I walked home with a song in my head about a dear friend - one with a classic name, an enviable laugh, and a problem with addiction. I found where this story lived on my guitar and made a scratch recording. I sent that recording to this friend, hoping it would say what I couldn’t. 

Here’s the truth: Daniel is not one story, but hundreds. It’s not a retelling of a single event; it’s a culmination of little histories I’ve collected from friends and family over the last few years. The ending, however, is true. The ending happened to me, and that’s all I can really say about that today. 

The magic of Daniel, at least to me, is in the performance. I am grateful to have played it in many rooms. I am grateful still for the chills it brings to me and those listening. I am grateful for the constant reminder that I am not alone in this lived experience. Daniel feels important, and it is so much bigger than me. I am privileged enough to carry this mystical and frightening thing that moves people to tears. What a golden opportunity to shed my ego and let this song live.

Perhaps you are an artist yourself. Perhaps this reminds you of some old song or poem or drawing you tucked away somewhere, even though it came fast, even though it felt natural, even though it was from outer space. I believe we are stewards of these sweet and swift things that fall into our laps. I believe it is our job to see them through to the bitter end. I believe the reason you can’t stop humming that song is because it’s yours. Carry it.