On Beauty

Don’t let me down.

Don’t let me down.

I read the words and hear them immediately. Lennon’s voice, thin and stretched, arrives first. Then the guitar. Then the bass, steady, almost patient. The song assembles itself in my head before I realise I’m listening.

Don’t let me down.

Don’t let me down.

There is urgency in the repetition. Not drama, just insistence. His voice cracks slightly, as if it might not hold. Another voice comes in underneath, lower, calmer. It doesn’t interrupt. It stays close.

My mind drifts.

It’s Christmas. The house smells of roasted turkey. Presents sit under the tree, still unopened. I wake up early. The day stretches ahead of me. My mother hands me a hot chocolate. The mug is warm, almost too warm, and I hold it carefully.

My father puts a CD into the player and switches on the surround system. The same chords fill the living room. They move through the house while we eat, while we talk, while nothing in particular happens.

Years later, the song returns. The sound settles into my body differently now. My breathing slows. The rhythm steadies me. I don’t think about why it works. I let it be.

Some songs do that. They don’t explain themselves. They don’t ask for anything. They simply arrive, and leave something behind.

I sit with that for a while. 

How can I create something so moving, so beautiful to possess such transcending qualities?  

My quest for attaining such beauty haunts me. In my calmness, I become anxious.