Last night I went to a local brewery to hear some music from a talented cover band who covered Pink Floyd. Never a huge fan (though The Wall brings me right back to high school and the iconic riff in Wish You Were Here was one of the first pieces of music I covered when I taught myself guitar. My husband is passionate about Pink Floyd and I wanted him to hear me play something that’s special to him. Something that’s special to him is special to me. Jonathan isn’t outwardly passionate about many topics, but Pink Floyd is music he immerses himself in time and again -the well-known songs and the deep cuts only a devotee could love. During the show last night, he asked me between songs and after a particularly long unknown-to-me song, “Too jam-bandy for you”? He probably saw me fiddling with my phone or maybe stifling a yawn.
After the first set he gestured towards his jacket and said, “C’mon, let’s go,” but I knew he was doing that purely for my benefit. Throughout that first set, I saw him singing along, tapping on the stained plywood table, drinking his second microbrew and relaxing into the night. “Nope, we’re staying,” I told him, “I want to hear Comfortably Numb.” I was able to take a picture of the setlist hanging on the mic stand at the beginning of the night and zoomed in on it, checking out what songs I would actually know and Numb was one of them, the last song of the second set. He looked at me skeptically, and I think he knew we were staying because this was something strictly for his enjoyment. It makes me happy to see him so happy and that alone was worth sitting through lyric-less jams.
When the night grew late (yes, 9:30PM is just about my bedtime and it appeared, for many of the 60+ set that were there that night, it was for them too), the last few songs were songs that I knew from Dark Side of the Moon and The Wall. “Mother” kicked off the last of the final songs of set two.
Mother set off my own introspection and reflection. My own mother and her inability to mother me in any way but the most basic, supporting my physical needs while not being able to address my emotional struggles and it made me think about my own role as Mother, including my own two-year estrangement from my adult son, which I’ve written about previously. Pink, from his own depression, asks his mother if, after everything else, if it’s all just a waste of time. In response, he learns his mother intends to put all of her fears into him and intends to make all of his nightmares come true. It’s a beautiful and brutal song. It’s a song that pulls you down, down into Pink’s depths.
I watched the mostly men around me singing this song and I wondered where their minds were. I watched some women dancing to the song and I wondered if they felt the lyrics and meaning as I was at that moment. The band moved into Wish You Were Here. There are a lot of people who I wish were here. I wish my father was here, having died in 1997. I wish my friend Ruthanne was here, having died this past spring; I wish my dogs Shelby and Wonton were here, my gentle sorely missed companions; I wish my mother and family were here, though life without them is more peaceful. Most of all, I wish my son was here. I still don’t know why he disconnected from our lives again. So much wishing.
The final song of the night was Comfortably Numb. At this point, I knew the tears were sitting behind my eyeballs and I was pleading with them to stay there. My devoted Jonathan would be confused and crushed to think I was crying. Again. That afternoon I had been tearing up over something and I reminded him that I was a cryer by nature, though most of the time the crying was internal. That afternoon I also reminded him that my sadness had so very little to do with anything that he has ever done and that the issues I deal with in my own sadness have to do with my own feelings of solitude, for which he is the most reliable cure and he is mostly unaware that he is. Mostly.
During the opening notes of Comfortably Numb, I had a vision and the band faded into the background. I saw a field of deep snow. Not the type of snow that could have footprints – it was too deep for that. It was deep, deep snow. As if watching a movie, I saw a figure, chest deep pushing through the show. This person’s body, which I could only view from the armpits up, was me. She was learning forward, driving herself through this pristine and barren field of snow and it was snowing hard.
I watched the deep path she had carved out behind her and watched her struggle to forge through the deep snow that continued in front of her. She had on a coat but her head was uncovered. Her hands wore gloves and she pushed the snow away from her body as if trying to swim through the snow. I saw the silhouette of a big old tree, naked of leaves off to the side of this vista, the only object in the scene other than me. And I walked on, using tremendous effort. Where I was going, I don’t know. What was driving me, I don’t know, but I kept going. Alone. The tears burned my eyes as they are doing so now.
Sunday morning I woke up thinking about that scene. The snow was too deep for footprints. There was little evidence that a human had carved this path, but a path it was, and it was carved by me. I could only see myself from the armpits up – the rest was buried, invisible, under the surface, much like my multi-fold grief about so many aspects of so many former relationships that I carry through my life. I’m moving my arms like a swimmer doing the breast stroke, driving myself through the snow. I was determined, and this was my only way to survive. There is no viable alternative to my own survival and watching myself push through this harsh landscape from a distance reminded me of the strength, focus and determination it takes me daily to keep moving forward even when putting that drive aside might be preferable.
Comfortably Numb. Who was comfortably numb? That woman driving herself through the freezing snow or me, the sole witness? Not only was I witness to the efforts of my past journey, that deep path behind me, but I could see the unploughed journey ahead of me that would require a focused and determined effort to push through. I wasn’t striving to arrive at a building in the distance nor a place where the ground was shoveled out with an easy path. I was headed towards more of the same with only myself as witness to past and future efforts. Is survival the only factor that motivates her to keep going? To rest in the deep would not only be cold and uncomfortable, but fatal. To rest in the deep snow would negate all of the effort that went before. So why keep forging ahead? I felt like I had no idea.
The final lines of Comfortably Numb summarize why I don’t immerse myself into the numbness. “I can’t explain, you would not understand. This is not how I am.”
A focus on the nothingness and despairing into the numbness is not who I am, though sitting with this as an outsider looking at my struggles can be cathartic and can transition oneself into a deeper reflection. What keeps me pushing through the cold, deep snow? My husband, Jonathan, who is a selfless, loving man whose devotion makes me appreciate him and empowers me to keep moving forward. He gives me room to advance in whatever way works best for me and cheers me on when it’s clear that I have to sometimes journey alone. My daughter Lily who rarely ends conversations without saying, “Love you,” and who holds me accountable for words and actions and who plays a mean game of Rummikub. No relationship is ever perfect, especially between mothers and daughters, but this one is about as perfect as I could hope for. My grandson Sam, who lives in the moment, judgement free, and who recharges my soul from the deepest depths. No matter how difficult each days’ trek is, knowing Sam loves his grandma and that I love him keeps me trekking.
Hope also keeps me advancing; hope that I’ll get a call from my son, hope that the depth of the snow might lessen and the journey might become easier. I believe in the future and in watching my efforts to get through the snow to end up somewhere unknown can become less about survival and more about the internal warmth that the thoughts of these people and hope itself gives me, making the trekking warmer and more tolerable, more comfortable and less numb.
Geneiveve Kaufman Writes 