Ode to the Unknown
05/01/20
by Angela James
My mother was a middle school guidance counselor while I was growing up, but she didn’t often give advice. The two things I remember her saying most were <insert eastern Tennessee accent>: “You’re gonna get something you don’t want,” if I was about to do something she thought was wrong, and “Time will tell,” if I asked an existential question. That last one was her favorite; it’s infallible but unhelpful advice. Obviously time will tell, but we have no idea what it will tell us.
Five years ago, I wrote a lullaby called “Time Will Tell” during a period when big questions weighed heavily and I was consumed by anxiety. I wrote it to soothe myself and to serve as a reminder that it is possible to be comfortable in the unknown. The song has taken on new depth in the last few weeks. The big questions I had when I wrote it are mostly resolved or don’t trouble me anymore. There are new questions now, and they feel insurmountable at times. It’s harder for me to find solace in creating new artistic work these days. I’m also busy as hell as the parent of a young child also trying to hold onto the little work that hasn’t evaporated from my life as a self-employed yoga instructor and musician.
Before the quarantine, I was in the middle of making a new record. Most of the songs are inspired by caregiving—it’s what I do with most of my time parenting and living with an ailing family member. I write songs about the triumphs, joys, mysteries, challenges, heartbreaks, and conflicts of taking care of other people. I should say that I interpret caregiving pretty broadly; we all take care of something or someone. And yet caregiving is devalued in our society. We don’t consider this work worthy of a high salary or prestige. We don’t celebrate it as artful or even as a skill that deserves cultivation. I find great purpose and inspiration in caregiving; it grounds me in the present moment and often takes me out of my own dark and murky mind. It’s also hard, physically and emotionally exhausting work. There’s a persistent feeling of not having enough time or boundaries.
I first entertained the notion of a second career in nursing and hospice care while emerging from the haze of a postpartum mood disorder. Maybe it’s counterintuitive to think about death when you’ve just given birth, but I’ve always been a shade or two goth. This semester, I began taking prerequisites for graduate-level entry programs in nursing. I want to apply the skills and experience I’ve gained in devoting the last 20 years of my life to yoga and music to end-of-life-care. I know how much music and being a compassionate witness to the emotions of grief can guide people through the labyrinth of what death might mean. I also don’t mind hospitals, which is inexplicable.
We don’t have adequate language for death, but I do believe that this time of quarantine may be changing that to a small degree. Our whole grieving process and the rituals we associate with managing grief involve gathering together, and that’s not possible right now. There are fewer bedside goodbyes and no drunken, post-wake hangouts with long-lost family and friends. Now we only have our limited language of death and some digital tools to help us share that with each other. The death of a family member a month ago (unrelated to the virus) resulted in a days-long eulogy on Facebook. It was more interactive than any funeral I’ve ever attended. We know that physical closeness isn’t always necessary for emotional intimacy. This distance may actually give some the space they might need to open more deeply in challenging and confusing times.
Enhanced online/digital witnessing doesn’t take the sadness of loss away–I believe those holes in our hearts aren’t for filling or hiding. But right now we are hungry for connection and care, and our rituals can become more participatory, inclusive, and expansive because our resources are limited. I hope that when things go back to “normal,” we can incorporate some of these tools into our existing practices.
Caregiving is a transformative act that helps me in accepting the unknown. And for the first time, I am honoring healing in my artistic practice. The idea was always there, but maybe I didn’t think it was legitimate or cool before. I don’t know. I joke that I’ve always been a New Age musician–I just didn’t have the guts to admit it. I’m still at the beginning of this journey and I’m not sure where it will lead. If anything, the world’s experience of COVID-19 has only strengthened my resolve to pursue a second career in health care. I want to do this work because I’m interested in exploring the unknown and caring for people in the midst of death. It scares me like it scares everyone else, but I’m ready to not run away from the fear. Maybe I’ve actually been running toward it the whole time and just didn’t realize.
Time will tell, don’t worry no more
Just close your eyes and open the door
What will come, I’ve got no clue
But I know that everyone is pulling for you
Darkness comes at the end of the day
But I’ll be the one who runs and the one who stays
So go inside, make yourself at home
You’re not the only one, you’re not alone
Angela James is a yoga therapist and singer-songwriter. She has self-released three full-length records, toured only a tiny bit, and lives with her partner, artist/educator/social media enthusiast Jordan Martins, daughter Hattie, and various in-laws in a family compound in Chicago. Tiny Mix Tapes said something really nice once about her music: “James’s power is to channel the sounds and emotional honesty of a musical canon in a way that doesn’t feel trite, wandering and wallowing at the same time.”
@angjams
@angelajamesmusic
angelajames.bandcamp.com
Angela James worked on this piece with Christy LeMaster, the Quarantine Times Friday editor. Each week, Christy selects a Chicagoan to share a commissioned creative response to the pandemic.
