from the Editors archives
There’s a choir that sings in my bedroom. The tone is melancholy, yet hopeful– they sing of muddy water; the effort that appears wasted– the try and try again. It’s the try again part that moves me. There must be a message in the “try.”
They visit when I am alone, but for the one time that my heart was bursting in happiness– as I lay in the arms of my new love. Do you hear the music, I asked him? Jumping up and turning off all the noise, as I did the first time– searching for where it was. He did not, and was in awe that I did.
Fitting that they sing there in my room, now a place of peace for me, where only heartbreak and tears once lived. Where I used to try for understanding, for change, for love; receiving only mocking ridicule and the taunting of “I’ll never leave.”
A reward for my effort and victory, perhaps, as that life is in the past now; as I finally rid myself of some of the mud. Faltering sometimes in my faith– the tasking so much harder than I thought it should be.
But the choir sings to remind me, to prove my new find, to show me that reward as I lay alone- only if it’s my desire. Only if alone is my need.
The choir sings me this:
Perhaps we are never truly alone; perhaps it is our refusal to hear, not our refusal to see, that keeps us blind in good company.
It is the music of the soul singing in my bedroom, proving me worthy as I wash away the mud–as the water runs clear once more.
It is with that clarity in my heart that I find my own voice.