Yesterday I read a post on Facebook that stood in refreshing contrast to the shame culture I see too often online. Not a week goes by before I see some news story that has been fowarded ad infinitum, appended with hundreds of judgements of the subject of said story. A classic one is something I classify as Mother of the Year, a tale in which a mom does something to disqualify herself absolutely for such a title, as least according the Court of Internet Public Opinion.
I am weary of all of this mob fury. I worry that it is going to spill into our interactions on a more intimate scale, that it could become commonplace for folks to get group whippings online over petty disputes.
In contrast to these public judgements, I sometimes witness great shows of support for misfortune. I have wondered if the internet community would be so supportive if the adversity was due to something that could be judged negatively. Yesterday I read that one of my Facebook friends was relieved to have finished paying a debt through wage garnishment, and the responses were refreshingly supportive. I thought he was brave to admit the experience and pleased that others cheered him for satisfying his debt.
I would prefer to read that instead of the usual shame-on-so-and-so stories.
I suppose that my taste in music should not be trusted because my hearing is poor on one side. There are only two acoustic settings in which I can truly enjoy a song, while using decent headphones or listening in a car. In other places I lose too many sonic details to engage my attention fully on music. While I can hear enough to decide whether a song merits a closer listening, I cannot “lose myself” in a song if I hear it on TV, on a stereo, etc.
There have been many songs I have wanted to listen to repeatedly for a time, like a musical serial monogamy. I like to exhaust the captivating feelings a song provokes until eventually it holds me spellbound only occasionally. One such song is “The Wolf” by Mumford and Sons.
Like any work of the imagination, the meaning of a song is open to interpretation, and I am biased toward finding if a song could be a soundtrack for someone I know. Ordinarily there is not much point to explicating a song as if one were writing a term paper on a poem. While it is not uncommon to hear a tune and temporarily adopt it as a theme song, it is more unusual to listen to a song and consider that it could capture how someone else might see you. This is the case with my impression of “The Wolf”.
As I listen to this song, I think that it is about loving someone who is prone to anxiety. The person loved can get so mired in fear that they may be not be fully engaged in the relationship or life beyond their worries. The first time I heard it, I was struck by the notion that it could describe what it is like for my husband to love me. There are times when I am stuck in the reverie of imagining small or major catastrophes and lose sight of him. I worry that he will grow weary of hearing me explain boundaries that help me ward off the things that bother me, such as avoiding left turns whenever possible. I appreciate his compassion for my issues, and this song reminds me that I would benefit from trying to take his perspective. That is one of the healing aspects of love, the opportunity to see things through someone else’s eyes. With the anxiety I have at times, it is a relief to borrow a different vantage point for a while.
Tattoos are one of many trends I do not find tempting. I suppose that the prevalence of tattoos is not merely trendy since they become commonplace back in the 90’s, while I was still in my twenties. I haven’t once considered getting one done in the meantime. I figure that my genes and varying size have conspired to imprint me with nature’s original body art, stretch marks. If I want my tribal markings to appear, all I need to do is expose my skin to the summer sun for a while. Soon enough key patches of my arms and legs will get that inverse zebra look, as stretch marks do not tan (at least mine don’t). Some may desire a tattoo to capture a sentiment or tell a story, and my marks can serve those functions too. When they can be seen, my marks reveal that I am not pretending to be perfect and that I have changed over time. What else is more dependable than imperfection and change?