Hallelujah
Lately Eilza and myself have been listening to a lot of good music. I can't really say for sure what Eliza likes but together we listen to Arcade Fire, Nada Surf, Peter Gabriel, Wilco and most recently, Jeff Buckley. Unfortunately, close to ten years after his death, Jeff Buckley might be sorry to find himself in the $8 rack at the Virgin Megastore. I know those deals are gimmicks but I've wanted his cd "Grace" for some time now, specifically for a song called "Hallelujah."
I was thrilled to bring it home last week and play it repeatedly while Eliza grinned and squealed in her doorway jumper. She loves to jump on her forceful little legs and with music blaring I was happy to stand opposite her, mimicing her flailing arms and noisy exuberance. It reminded me of a free concert I attended with Eliza a few Sundays ago, when two kids, approximately age three, got up and started jumping up and down to the accompaniment of a jazz band. The kids, a little girl dressed in a spagetti strapped sundress and high heeled wedges, faced a blond boy in a Ralph Lauren sweater vest ensemble. They faced off and then started to jump and jump and jump, the kiddie bounce apparently being the only step they knew. Eliza, seated on my lap, turned to look at them and started to wiggle her little arms, infected by their enthusiasm. The kids threw their heads back, their laughter audible over the music, their faces red with concentration and pure happiness. I wanted to get up and jump with them, their joy so palatable, that time when jumping up and down was simply the best thing in the world.
I used to have a habit of jumping up and down on the bed in hotel rooms, especially on location jobs when a broken bed wasn't on my tab. You see, I brought up work as a way to let you know I did this as an adult, not a child, an adult aware of what jumping up and down can do to a bed. I used to do it at boyfriend's apartments, on sets when no one was looking and in the privacy of some one else's house. I know the jubilation, the sheer joy of being a live a good jump can bring and I'm thrilled to see that unadultered glee on the face of my own child, especially with the Jeff Buckley accompaniment.
Finally, the cd came to song six, Hallelujah, a song I realized recently, is actually a Leonard Cohen song. Suddenly jumping seemed inappropriate and I extended my arms in a graceful porta-bras, all the while my eyes following my hands as my fingers curved and reached in what I picture as beautiful postions but actually look more like ping pong paddles. Eliza stopped jumping to watch me and egged on by my audience of one, I continued to demonstrate what learned from grade school ballet. Eliza's joy released me to be only in that moment, only to be a body with hands extended towards my daughter as the power of the music guided me. It felt like the first time I really heard the music of Chopin and thought this must be the voice of God or saw, really saw Balanchine's ballet "Apollo" and thought that would be the vision of God if God could make ballet this great. It could be Michealangelo's "David" or the latest album from Beck, we've all got our own Gods, the artists who show us what it's like to truly live in that moment, seeing or hearing nothing other than that art experience.
On this day, it was Buckley's voice, a voice that manages to be decidedly male but almost girlish at the same time, crooning a chorus of Hallelujahs. What this song means, I haven't a clue, something about a king and somebody who doesn't really like music anyway. And then there's that word, repeatedly sung in a gentle fashion, a word most wouldn't argue is seen as a holy word, a word that will make one who doesn't quite believe in God, some one like myself, wonder. As some one who practices no religion and doesn't feel the presence of a God, except at the New York City Ballet or in front of my stereo sometimes, there is no afterlife, there is only this one, my daughter in her Johhny Jump Up, me pretending to be twinkle toes in front of her. Suddenly I'm no longer rolling with the music but thinking about how this faithless life will affect my daughter and poor Jeff Buckley, a guy who died before he released his second album. A freak accident, drowning after he decided to swim in a river in Memphis, wearing boots that were too heavy. His close friends don't believe his death to be a suicide but there are some who still do. Since Buckley's biological father, a folk singer, died of a heroin overdose at a young age in 1975, Jeff's early death seems, in an odd way, preordained.
I say biological father because Jeff Buckley was raised by his stepfather, in fact carried his stepfather's name until he met his father for the first and only time. Jeff Buckley met Tim Buckley once and yet the fact that they were both musicians says a great deal about the power of biology and what gets passed down through the gene pool. And as Buckley, the younger's voice reaches out to me through the power of new stereo speakers, I can only wonder what, if any, of me Eliza will carry.
I'll admit to being on the morbid side but I've never considered myself to be Woody Allen obsessed with death. It's one of life's certainties, along with taxes, but I see myself as one of those blissfully unaware few, the kind who only thinks of that reality on airplanes, when the latest bouncer guns some one down in my neighborhood, and when I step onto the subway late at night. As they say, having a baby changes everything and in my case it's caused me to think long and hard about my mortality, my faith or lack there of it, and life insurance. I've never before thought of myself as some one who should have a will but about a week after Eliza was born I became obsessed with it. It's not about money because I don't have that, it's about who will look after my daughter if I'm not here.
And truthfully, it comes from my own almost overpowering desire to watch her grow up. Nothing put the fear of death in me the way having a child has. I don't even think about the future, hardly think of stuff planned a few months down the road because I want to be here, in this now, watching my tiny little baby learn to jump and sit up by herself. The idea of not being here for her is almost too unbearable, much more so than the idea of dying before I see, say London, or before I win the lotto or accomplish those now less important career goals. I want to be here with her, from now on, every day, to revel in her smiles, her innocense, her neediness, her triumph in the simple act of eating some jarred peas. Just folding her into my arms in the morning after I've woken up is like a daily visit from God, an act that fills me with such happiness, sometimes I think I might split in two.
Now Hallelujah has ended and I wonder about Jeff Buckley, a man who's father didn't really know him and died when Buckley was only 12 years old. Was Tim Buckley ever depressed about all the day to day stuff he missed with his son or did he rarely think of it? Oh yeah, I had a son, the way some people think, oh yeah I used to have a pair of black loafers. They're both dead but they left their music behind, that always serves as some kind of consolation to people. Look at what he accomplished, look at what he left. But what does it matter when they're not here to enjoy it? It's hearing Eliza babble in her crib in the morning, it's how she throws her arms around me now like she's almost hugging me, the little things that make this now count so much. These two men never had that.
The next song is faster, more upbeat and Eliza starts to jump again. Even at six months, she seems to understand there are major and minor keys in music. Some music you jump to and some you just stand there and watch Mama pretend she's Maria Kowroski. And maybe for that one moment, in her eyes, I was the vision that Maria Kowroski is for me, that vision that transports me to another world, that body that when in motion cancels out everything around me. When Maria moves, I can only marvel at what that body can do in that moment, there is only now and that leg that can kick to the sky like a Titan. There is only this moment and the power that human body created to the music another human being created and a series of human beings must keep alive with the strings of a violin or keys of a piano.
Eliza giggles and takes me out of my Maria Kowroski fantasy. Her giggle fits come more frequently now but they are still rare, spontaneous and occur from no specific origin. I dance some more and the giggle gets louder then dissolved into a series of shrieks. She throws her head back and jumps some more, higher and higher, her giggles filling the apartment, almost drowning out the voice of Jeff Buckley. If I could, I would stay here in this now, with her in front of me laughing and me wondering what on earth could be so funny and yet still thankful for whatever can cause that much joy. I would still be young and agile and pain free and she would be my baby, full of vim and vigor and the promise of a brand new life that will grown and flourish and bloom into some one so much more complete than me.
I was thrilled to bring it home last week and play it repeatedly while Eliza grinned and squealed in her doorway jumper. She loves to jump on her forceful little legs and with music blaring I was happy to stand opposite her, mimicing her flailing arms and noisy exuberance. It reminded me of a free concert I attended with Eliza a few Sundays ago, when two kids, approximately age three, got up and started jumping up and down to the accompaniment of a jazz band. The kids, a little girl dressed in a spagetti strapped sundress and high heeled wedges, faced a blond boy in a Ralph Lauren sweater vest ensemble. They faced off and then started to jump and jump and jump, the kiddie bounce apparently being the only step they knew. Eliza, seated on my lap, turned to look at them and started to wiggle her little arms, infected by their enthusiasm. The kids threw their heads back, their laughter audible over the music, their faces red with concentration and pure happiness. I wanted to get up and jump with them, their joy so palatable, that time when jumping up and down was simply the best thing in the world.
I used to have a habit of jumping up and down on the bed in hotel rooms, especially on location jobs when a broken bed wasn't on my tab. You see, I brought up work as a way to let you know I did this as an adult, not a child, an adult aware of what jumping up and down can do to a bed. I used to do it at boyfriend's apartments, on sets when no one was looking and in the privacy of some one else's house. I know the jubilation, the sheer joy of being a live a good jump can bring and I'm thrilled to see that unadultered glee on the face of my own child, especially with the Jeff Buckley accompaniment.
Finally, the cd came to song six, Hallelujah, a song I realized recently, is actually a Leonard Cohen song. Suddenly jumping seemed inappropriate and I extended my arms in a graceful porta-bras, all the while my eyes following my hands as my fingers curved and reached in what I picture as beautiful postions but actually look more like ping pong paddles. Eliza stopped jumping to watch me and egged on by my audience of one, I continued to demonstrate what learned from grade school ballet. Eliza's joy released me to be only in that moment, only to be a body with hands extended towards my daughter as the power of the music guided me. It felt like the first time I really heard the music of Chopin and thought this must be the voice of God or saw, really saw Balanchine's ballet "Apollo" and thought that would be the vision of God if God could make ballet this great. It could be Michealangelo's "David" or the latest album from Beck, we've all got our own Gods, the artists who show us what it's like to truly live in that moment, seeing or hearing nothing other than that art experience.
On this day, it was Buckley's voice, a voice that manages to be decidedly male but almost girlish at the same time, crooning a chorus of Hallelujahs. What this song means, I haven't a clue, something about a king and somebody who doesn't really like music anyway. And then there's that word, repeatedly sung in a gentle fashion, a word most wouldn't argue is seen as a holy word, a word that will make one who doesn't quite believe in God, some one like myself, wonder. As some one who practices no religion and doesn't feel the presence of a God, except at the New York City Ballet or in front of my stereo sometimes, there is no afterlife, there is only this one, my daughter in her Johhny Jump Up, me pretending to be twinkle toes in front of her. Suddenly I'm no longer rolling with the music but thinking about how this faithless life will affect my daughter and poor Jeff Buckley, a guy who died before he released his second album. A freak accident, drowning after he decided to swim in a river in Memphis, wearing boots that were too heavy. His close friends don't believe his death to be a suicide but there are some who still do. Since Buckley's biological father, a folk singer, died of a heroin overdose at a young age in 1975, Jeff's early death seems, in an odd way, preordained.
I say biological father because Jeff Buckley was raised by his stepfather, in fact carried his stepfather's name until he met his father for the first and only time. Jeff Buckley met Tim Buckley once and yet the fact that they were both musicians says a great deal about the power of biology and what gets passed down through the gene pool. And as Buckley, the younger's voice reaches out to me through the power of new stereo speakers, I can only wonder what, if any, of me Eliza will carry.
I'll admit to being on the morbid side but I've never considered myself to be Woody Allen obsessed with death. It's one of life's certainties, along with taxes, but I see myself as one of those blissfully unaware few, the kind who only thinks of that reality on airplanes, when the latest bouncer guns some one down in my neighborhood, and when I step onto the subway late at night. As they say, having a baby changes everything and in my case it's caused me to think long and hard about my mortality, my faith or lack there of it, and life insurance. I've never before thought of myself as some one who should have a will but about a week after Eliza was born I became obsessed with it. It's not about money because I don't have that, it's about who will look after my daughter if I'm not here.
And truthfully, it comes from my own almost overpowering desire to watch her grow up. Nothing put the fear of death in me the way having a child has. I don't even think about the future, hardly think of stuff planned a few months down the road because I want to be here, in this now, watching my tiny little baby learn to jump and sit up by herself. The idea of not being here for her is almost too unbearable, much more so than the idea of dying before I see, say London, or before I win the lotto or accomplish those now less important career goals. I want to be here with her, from now on, every day, to revel in her smiles, her innocense, her neediness, her triumph in the simple act of eating some jarred peas. Just folding her into my arms in the morning after I've woken up is like a daily visit from God, an act that fills me with such happiness, sometimes I think I might split in two.
Now Hallelujah has ended and I wonder about Jeff Buckley, a man who's father didn't really know him and died when Buckley was only 12 years old. Was Tim Buckley ever depressed about all the day to day stuff he missed with his son or did he rarely think of it? Oh yeah, I had a son, the way some people think, oh yeah I used to have a pair of black loafers. They're both dead but they left their music behind, that always serves as some kind of consolation to people. Look at what he accomplished, look at what he left. But what does it matter when they're not here to enjoy it? It's hearing Eliza babble in her crib in the morning, it's how she throws her arms around me now like she's almost hugging me, the little things that make this now count so much. These two men never had that.
The next song is faster, more upbeat and Eliza starts to jump again. Even at six months, she seems to understand there are major and minor keys in music. Some music you jump to and some you just stand there and watch Mama pretend she's Maria Kowroski. And maybe for that one moment, in her eyes, I was the vision that Maria Kowroski is for me, that vision that transports me to another world, that body that when in motion cancels out everything around me. When Maria moves, I can only marvel at what that body can do in that moment, there is only now and that leg that can kick to the sky like a Titan. There is only this moment and the power that human body created to the music another human being created and a series of human beings must keep alive with the strings of a violin or keys of a piano.
Eliza giggles and takes me out of my Maria Kowroski fantasy. Her giggle fits come more frequently now but they are still rare, spontaneous and occur from no specific origin. I dance some more and the giggle gets louder then dissolved into a series of shrieks. She throws her head back and jumps some more, higher and higher, her giggles filling the apartment, almost drowning out the voice of Jeff Buckley. If I could, I would stay here in this now, with her in front of me laughing and me wondering what on earth could be so funny and yet still thankful for whatever can cause that much joy. I would still be young and agile and pain free and she would be my baby, full of vim and vigor and the promise of a brand new life that will grown and flourish and bloom into some one so much more complete than me.
posted by Litgirl Mama at 12:30 PM
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