by Christie Shumate McElwee
Yesterday I had the blues, the kind that brought a thick fog of melancholy. I was overwhelmed. Even yoga couldn’t cut through the gloom. Was I alone in all of this? I wrote a short Facebook post about my blue mood, and many of my friends responded, stating they were struggling with the same feelings. We are all going through something strange and indescribable. Yesterday evening in another Facebook post, writer Glennon Doyle defined it as the aches:
“My ache is the the touch tree of my life. I spent most of my life running from the deep ache inside me – tumbling it, ignoring it, denying deflecting it – because I thought if I let it rise up it would kill me…I live in the ache these days. If you live there too just know: we are there together. The ache is the meeting place of the brave. It’s the touch tree of all humanity. When we’re there, we are not lost: we are found.”
The blues are the ache for what we are experiencing. The rising numbers of deaths. The dangerous ignorance and ineptitude of some of those ‘in charge.’ The lack of human touch. The virtual birthday parties and happy hours and business meetings. The quiet loneliness. The deserted streets. The empty restaurants. The malevolent fear festering beneath an ancient wound.
Blues and gospel singers knew about sadness and grief. Their songs spoke of heartache, reaching through the chords to help heal the brokenness. Even some traditional hymns sprang from loss. Music and poetry (song lyrics are the ultimate poetry) woven together create the perfect storm, stitching together our aches.
For the past three Saturday evenings, my husband and I have tuned into Circle Access’ Opry Livestream. The musicians play to an empty Opry with only a skeleton crew to film their performances. I’ve shed more than a bucket of tears listening to Marty Stuart’s mandolin, Vince Gill’s and Amy Grant’s harmonies, and the powerful trio of women (Terri Clark, Alaina Lauren, and Ashley McBryde) pay tribute to Joe Diffie with their interpretation of “John Deere Green.” There is a haunting silence after each song ends and the camera pans the empty Opry pews.
This hour has been our church, the songs prayers, and the musicians preachers. The simple acoustic beauty of the songs flows through each artist. A few have even shed tears of their own. The actual Opry circle is a remnant from the original Ryman stage, installed in 1974 at the new venue across town. The circle of wood reminds all of those who passed before us, of their talents and hearts and pain.
Life is an unbroken circle. Believe in love. Believe in kindness. Believe in joy, even as our hearts, like a gospel choir, sing the blues.
“Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, lord, by and by
There’s a better home a-waiting
In the sky, lord, in the sky”