Dear friends,
It’s a short Substack this week. I know there’s Thanksgiving in the U.S. this week, involving people and food and relaxation. Whether it’s a holiday or not for you, I hope you have people and food and relaxation with you. And safety. And justice. And return. And more safety.
The On Being season comes to an end this week with an extraordinary interview with the singular Nick Cave. I’ve been listening to his work for many years (since my older brother told me I should start). Last summer, I read Faith, Hope and Carnage, and promptly bought copies for friends, too. In a world of binaries, Nick’s capacity to hone his own grief into precision is unforgettable. I wouldn’t want anyone else to have to learn the awful lessons his family have learnt. I am changed by reading — and hearing — him speak of what it means for him to live with death.
The conversation between Krista and Nick covers art, music, grief, and God. In terrible tragedies, two of Nick’s sons have died in the last few years, and he speaks about what it means to live in this bereaved state with Krista. The episode is poetry, and so, for this weekend of the After-Thanksgiving, I want to recommend you take some time to listen to this gorgeous episode.
The show has a lot of Nick’s music peppered throughout (the lyrics and audio of which he kindly gave us permission to reproduce for our transcripts and newsletters). Here’s some lines from “Into My Arms”:
I don't believe in an interventionist God
But I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
Not to touch a hair on your head
To leave you as you are
And if He felt He had to direct you
Then direct you into my arms
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms
(Excerpt from “Into My Arms” from The Boatman’s Call, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, 1997. Licensed publishing rights BMG.)
It is the beautiful turn of the “but if I did” that moves me. Nick, whose father taught literature, has particular feelings about what is and what isn’t poetry. I don’t know that I agree; his lyrics have always moved me. Lyric, from the old word lyre — the small harp-like instrument strummed to amplify a poem’s internal music in the courts of the Greeks. Lyric poem… Song lyric… They’re all shapes music takes in language.
A song lyric often does make more usage of repetition than a poem does, as can be seen in the fourfold repetition of “into my arms” in the short excerpt of the lyrics above. There are other songs of Nick’s that do similar things: sonorous lines that are allowed to gather depth and meaning by echoing themselves. For me, listening to Nick is like watching a Rothko painting: layers are revealed where I hadn’t realised layers were. One of his songs — he speaks about this with Krista — was worked and worked and worked upon and ended up mostly being a single line repeated again and again. You’ll hear it in the episode.
The question for this week?
I’m curious about a line that you repeat to yourself: it might be from a song, or a prayer, or a poem. What’s that line? I’d love to read it.
PS: In the spirit of giving thanks, I wanted to thank everyone who contributes to On Being financially. I know times aren’t easy, so your kind generosity is hugely appreciated. Whatever way you donate a little of your hard earned money to On Being’s work, thank you. We love doing the work; we’ll keep doing it.
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Reading Rilke Today
Next Sunday, December 3rd at 4pm ET, I’ll join Rilke translator and poet, Mark S. Burrows and Marie Howe, to explore the writings of Rilke and why Rilke’s words challenge and inspire us, offering “words that still ripen in the silences.” Registration is free, with more details here.
For years I used to ask my children when they were upset or angry, "Do you need some love and understanding?" They would collapse in tears, nodding, and climb into my lap. The question helped remind me to sit with their feelings, not try to solve everything every time.
It's a refrain, now, this question. They (my children, now teenagers) ask it of me too, and I ask it, silently, when thinking how I might approach one of my students. The demonstration of that love and understanding is different than the physical comfort I give my own children (who still climb into my lap), but the question refocuses me to what is important: compassion and empathy for the human struggle we all face.
Mary Oliver: Pay attention, be astonished, tell about it.