Of quiet Christmas nights and bright Christmas lights.
“All my favourite people have passed away. What are you going to do? You just learn to move on”.
This was said by the singer, while on stage, during a concert I went to, a few days ago. I went there to see someone who had been a bass player+singer for some of my favourite bands, and who was now doing a solo tour. This is a man, covered in tattoos, who has historically been famous by his many abuses and erratic behaviour, who sings songs like “I’ll f*ck anything that moves”, admitting he has been known for doing exactly that, who has a history of rendezvous with the authorities, and got into trouble for performing naked, domestic violence, alcohol and substance abuse. And on that moment, the wild man in any of the bands he’s in, was on stage, in a fragile state, confessing how much he missed people in his life, thus dedicating the next song to them. It was a very unexpected turn in a night that was supposed to be of classic hits and good music. And, perhaps, this little moment meant more than all the music that was played that night.
I drove home thinking about all of this. About how even those who apparently don’t spend much time digesting their feelings will, with time, be overwhelmed by them – and that sharing, rather than being something embarrassing, is instead one of the most beautiful things of the human experience. The understanding that, no matter how different we are, we all breathe and bleed, we all laugh and cry, we are all warm and cold – and when people can connect through that, a truly special bond is created. I stopped seeing the over the top rock star, and I saw the man, the human, hidden within the many layers of excess.
Christmas has, in recent years, been a semi-grey affair. With my father gone, with grandma being gone too, much of the joy and enthusiasm has been taken away. With me being an only child, that means there are only two people left to celebrate what is a season to spend with the family, to spend immersed in love and warmth. It is tough, and we have tried to camouflage it in the best possible way - but that solves nothing. It has taken us a few years to understand what was needed to again get to that stage, and how to recapture some of the old essence – so this year we have decided to stay home, with the newest member of the family, little Batman, and focus on what is central to us – the sharing, the warmth, and the acceptance of some of those feelings above. The finding warmth in some cold places, the finding joy in what could be a sad occasion, the loving when there could be angst. The making sure that, no matter how dark the stage may be at some points, like in this photo of that concert, the lights will not just keep shining, but they’ll light up even more than was originally expected.
Last night was a quiet, peaceful, warm night. With no loud noises, no big party, no big laughs, but with warmth, with tenderness, with care. Christmas is love. And we have been able to recapture it, even with our favourite people gone.
21.12.2017
