Frozen Melodies

A friend of mine has struggled letting go of the early 2000’s. Years ago he jumped on the iTunes bandwagon and slowly built a collection of over 5,000 of his favorite artists and songs. At $.99 per song, it was a significant investment.

About a year ago, he asked me about my subscription to Spotify. I shared with him my love for the platform. Streaming allows me the ability to build commercial free playlists and share them with friends and family. In addition, for a monthly fee, I have virtually the entire universe of songs available to me.

When I encouraged him to adopt a streaming service such as Spotify or Apple Music, he cringed and laughed. He told me he was having a hard time letting go of his purchases on iTunes. He was reluctant to make the jump to a new generation of listening options.

Ironically, he is one of the few individuals who shares even a small portion of my eclectic musical taste. Through Spotify, I can listen to my favorite artists and discover many new artists early in their careers.

Music plays an inordinate part in my life. I much prefer listening to music than streaming shows or listening to the multitude of podcasts also available on Spotify. It has supplanted my love of reading and accompanies me on most of my hikes.

According to my Spotify Wrapped 2024 summary, I listened to 42,748 minutes of music last year. This placed me in the top 7% of users worldwide. I listened to a whopping 1,812 different songs. That figure doesn’t even factor in the hours of Taylor Swift Claire made me listen to on our travels last summer.

Unfortunately, music is also a trigger for my grief. I have found it hard to listen to my old playlist. It contains too many songs that remind me of Amy. Many songs have become frozen melodies in my mind conjuring up painful memories of Amy’s illness and loss.

They spark my yearning for her presence, which predictably is followed by tears creeping into the corners of my eyes. I know I am not alone in my feelings. The kids often ask me to skip songs that they associate with the 14-month period of Amy’s illness.

Several months after Amy’s passing, I created a new playlist comprised completely of new songs that Amy and I never shared. I named the playlist Phoenix Rising with some grandiose notion that it would somehow be able to help me rise from the ashes of my grief. After nearly a year, I have built the playlist up to over 7 hours of music. Unfortunately, I don’t feel it has served me well. I now associate much of the music with my first year of grief. I am unsure whether creating another new playlist would be of benefit or whether I would retain some of the same feelings toward it a year from now as I do for Phoenix Rising.

But I also find great solace in music. Like my love for hiking, it cleanses my mind and emotions. I physically feel better after shutting out the world and getting lost in the melodies and lyrics.

Someone once ridiculed me for finding comfort in the lyrics of what I thought was a particularly meaningful song. I let the comment slide, but I found it difficult to understand their point of view. Music speaks to me. It comforts me. It motivates me. It reminds me to be humble and appreciative of my many blessings.

It is my hope that someday my frozen melodies will thaw and nourish my heart once again. In the meantime, I will keep listening. Music represents the infinite possibilities of life and soothes my wounded soul. That is something I, and the world, very much need.