an open space

God bless the history that doesn't repeat
I wrote a song once when my heart was broken. It was a lot like Sark: about sadness and solitude and all the ways in which we try to make ourselves feel better, and once again fill ourselves with hope and peace. The other night, I played it for almost a stranger, in the house of a mutual friend. And the way that he looked at me made me feel frightened, and am very wary of those that might fall for the idea of me.

He expressed that he was very moved, and I felt my insides churn, because I hardly ever feel that vulnerable. Perhaps it helped that he was a stranger, with no knowledge of my background, or stubbornness, or insecurities.

Tonight we set up our basement for an open mic we've been planning for tomorrow night. We moved the couches, made a makeshift stage area, and covered the floor with blankets and cushions, placing dim lamps on the floor, and strings of white lanterns by the ceiling. Emily demands we preface our pieces with brief anecdotes and personal explanations, creating closeness and community in the room. But I wrote a string of songs in the start of the school year that reveal far too much of my unprotected heart, which the Bible shuns. Guard your heart above all things. And opted for a Noah Gundersen cover, that, like Bazan, is effortless and inelegant and achingly profound.

God bless the history that doesn't repeat . . . is a line from Bazan that Alex posted, that fills me with a tingly hope. That we do learn from our mistakes, that we are capable of recovery. That we do struggle, experience discomfort, pain, sadness, grief. But these aren't always permanent, and we're better people for it.