Some time last fall, I met a fellow songwriter from church. The pandemic was driving us stir-crazy so we took our guitars to a park and swap songs. It was her brilliant idea. I had never introduced myself as a musician nor a songwriter before, but there was something in her questions that invited me to acknowledge that I had made art, art that was worth exchanging with another artist.
Some of my songs had made their debuts to captive audiences on special occasions before. But this was different. Here is a volunteer who would take the time to hear not one or two, but my collection of songs, and to share hers with me. Art can be very revealing. Behind every song is a story. Some are written for fun, most are deeply personal. Some are unfinished. And then there are songs we wrote for ourselves; they process our pain. So two people were having a conversation; they conversed with their songs.
My new friend gave me a gift that day. She made me see myself as an artist. It did not occur to me that anyone outside my hostage circle (namely my sweet family and some dear friends) would bother taking the time to listen to my rookie tunes. Yet there we were on our second meeting, blankets on wet grass, freezing our fingers to damp guitars strings on a late autumn afternoon. As I listened to her voice and strings, I recognized something familiar, as if I could see the faint outlines of her art-making process tucked into beautiful melody and poetry. I could imagine what the behind-the-scenes footage might be like on her set because I had been to my own set.
We sang and strummed and talked until sunset. And then we parted in prayer. I learned how precious it is to have a fellow artist cheering you on. I have introduced myself as a songwriter once before. That day, bless my sister-in-Christ, I felt like one.
Image: Queen Elizabeth Park, early fall.