In a theory known as the Harmony of the Spheres,

Pythagoras proposed that the Sun, Moon and planets all emit their own unique hum based on their orbital revolution,

and that the quality of life on Earth reflects the tenor of celestial sounds which are physically imperceptible to the human ear.

~ Musica Universalis, Wikipedia

 

 

 

The following is an excerpt from Grace Paley on The Art of Growing Older found in Brainpickings.org.

“My father had decided to teach me how to grow old. I said O.K. My children didn’t think it was such a great idea. If I knew how, they thought, I might do so too easily. No, no, I said, it’s for later, years from now. And besides, if I get it right it might be helpful to you kids in time to come.

They said, Really?

My father wanted to begin as soon as possible.

Please sit down, he said. Be patient. The main thing is this — when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning.

That’s a metaphor, right?

Metaphor? No, no, you can do this. In the morning, do a few little exercises for the joints, not too much. Then put your hands like a cup over and under the heart. Under the breast. He said tactfully. It’s probably easier for a man. Then talk softly, don’t yell. Under your ribs, push a little. When you wake up, you must do this massage. I mean pat, stroke a little, don’t be ashamed. Very likely no one will be watching. Then you must talk to your heart.

Talk? What?

Say anything, but be respectful. Say — maybe say, Heart, little heart, beat softly but never forget your job, the blood. You can whisper also, Remember, remember.”

 

 

 

This morning I woke up with a Sunday that stretched out into a beautiful forever. I had no commitments until late in the afternoon and Kevin was still away.

The temperature outside was -6.5 C. A decadent idea occurred to me. I could do something I had not done in longer than I could remember. I made my coffee and instead of settling into my usual living room chair with my journal, I brought my cream-and-sugar-laced coffee back to our loft bed. I dug my feet deep under the quilt that was further weighted by the heavy wool of the Hudsons Bay blanket.

I cracked open my book that had been set down last night just after midnight.

I was close to finishing The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. It bothered me. I still wasn’t sure if I actually even liked it, loved it or was only finishing it because I was already so far along. Whatever the reasons, it was compelling.

Near the end I came across this passage (Spoiler Alert).  It’s a scene describing a massive fire.  The surviving woman is staring blankly at the flames. She cannot possibly begin to take in all that she has lost. It is far far beyond material losses.

All those she’d loved. Gone.  All that she had told herself about her place in the world. Gone.

The author wrote, “Those who understood saw that the time inside her had been boiled away by the heat of the fire…”

 

 

 

I read that sentence and paragraph over and over.

What I took away was that in those moments, her stories were burned away. And without our stories, we have no time. And without time/stories, what is left?

We are the carriers of time through our stories. We embody time with our words.

The world only exists for each of us within our narrative context. I know this has been said a thousand, perhaps millions of different ways, but today, between that sentence from my book and the piece by Grace Paley that asked us to beg our hearts to remember, this truth possessed a new clarity.

Years ago, I saw the documentary, Unknown White Male, about a young man who had retrograde amnesia. He was found with no identification and no clue who he was. Clearly he existed. But without his stories he hung within a strange vacuum. He had to create himself all over with new stories.

We are, each of us, completely contained within our own personal infinity. We are galactic solitudes filled with all the words with which we explain ourselves to ourselves.

And given that, how on earth can my private universe ever begin to connect with and understand yours?

 

 

 

I believe the answer starts around that first cave-dweller’s fire. By telling a story, an anecdote, sharing a memory or talking about a shared moment, our stories become a part of each other’s innermost galaxy. Which then connects us by a thin gossamer thread, a line that helps us both feel less alone and more understood.

You hold my story, and I in turn, hold yours.

Is it any wonder we tell each other about our day’s events? Why we must debrief? Why we share our stories over and over? Why group therapy works? Why books are so loved?

This is why we need to write, to talk, to listen, to read…so that our stories are shared and our galaxies broaden to contain more than only ourselves. Like the planets that push and pull each other into their gravitational fields, we too, can encompass more than just our own starry sphere.

By sharing our stories, we add our voices to become part of that beautiful universal hum, our own unique musical contribution to the harmony of the stars.

Let us talk.