There’s something timeless about John Lennon.
I was only three when he was murdered. In 1980, I couldn’t grasp death, couldn’t embody the agony of grief, couldn’t journey to Strawberry Fields to cry “Imagine” among a tattered quilt of mourners.
What I could do was bounce about (in the way toddlers do) to the White Album as the adults sat frozen. What I could do was notice the sun casting flecks of Enlightenment across my father’s face as we flew down the Interstate in a red Oldsmobile singing “Here Comes the Sun”.
My early childhood was infused with John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Throughout the years, they helped me first stay connected to my father, then later find a connection to myself. At at a time when grunge and hip-hop dominated the charts, I found refuge in Mean Mr. Mustard, Polythene Pam, Sargent Pepper, Lovely Rita and Lucy in the Sky, who all just wanna hold your hand.
I was always a “good” kid. Never rocked the boat. Never spoke out. Never stood out. Always the chameleon, never the peacock. I did what I was told (for the most part) and learned to suppress my most raw and visceral truths.
Perhaps this is why I gravitated towards John. Rebellion, fire, imperfection, ideals. The courage and inclination to speak up (gasp!). His public persona reflected back the parts of me that desperately wanted a voice. Damn what they think! Damn what they say!
On his birthday, I spent time scouring YouTube for old Lennon clips. I came across a video for “Mother” and listened to it over and over. At some point, I remembered he’d partaken in primal scream therapy in the ’70s and could hear its influences on this piece. As the song progresses, the breath pushes through the vocal chords, shredding his voice…Momma don’t gooooooo…Daddy come home!
I realized how in the moment he must have been while performing this piece. In the moment with the emotions and memories of primal loss. In the moment with catharsis, with the release of letting it flow and rage along the currents of breath and rhythm.
I realized how in all the creative ventures I’ve dabbled in, I’ve rarely allowed myself to fully, completely let go. Not like this.
I realized how I’d like more of this in my life. Letting go, that is. Without abandon.
I have the distinct pleasure of having been born in the late ’70s, putting me right at the cusp of Gen X and Gen Y. Like many Xers, I was a Latchkey Kid. I remember the Cold War, Oliver North, Just Say No, the doomed Challenger shuttle, the Electric Company, Thundercats, jellies, Chef Boyardee and Pong.
There were no cell phones, Internet, texting, Myspace, Facebook, iPhone, iPod, iBook or Kindle, which was fine – the velcro on my Reeboks was mesmerizing and distracting enough. It wasn’t until my mid to late 20’s that my inner Gen Y’er began to embrace these technologies, which for better or worse slipped seamlessly into my daily routine.
For better, I happened upon a site called Inspire.com, just one of many social networks providing support to people living with serious illness and their loved ones. According to the New York Times, these online communities are blooming like wildflowers – and for good reason. These sites offer something of an instant community of kindred souls who share common challenges, hopes and fears. And for those who are home or hospital bound due to their illness, social networking may be one of only a handful of outlets to connect and have a voice.
Of course, it’s not all peachy. Hopelessness can be contagious, and a predominately hopeless, negative community is bound to bring the spirit down. And as with the “real” world, there are likely a smattering of abusive, unsupportive or predatory individuals lurking in the Internet ether.
But all in all, this Kindness 2.0 thing is kinda cool.
Incidentally, I posted something to the Stop Sarcoidosis group at Inspire.com, and have found the community there to be incredibly kind, realistic and supportive. As one “sarkie” wrote, “Keep your chin up and don’t despair. We’ll help you through this!”
Lucid Amphibology 