Testimonies
- Bad
- Surrender
- Walk On
- Miracle Drug
- Mercy
- Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own
- Tomorrow
- MLK
- Where The Streets Have No Name
- In A Little While
- Falling At Your Feet
- Kite
- Running to Stand Still
- Hawkmoon 269
- Bad
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I've always felt that U2's music directly related to things that were going on in my life. This may have something to do with the fact that I'm about the same age as the members of U2, and we have gone through a lot of life's experiences at the same time. A lot of those life experiences have made their way into the music.
In 1984, I was a college student unwrapping my vinyl copy of The Unforgettable Fire. Popular radio was filled with Frankie telling people to "Relax," and college radio was a welcome respite from what I considered to be stupid music. I counted myself a U2 fan, and the Violent Femmes and REM also had heavy rotation on my turntable.
I was also struggling with watching someone very close to me wage a huge battle with addiction.
It's hard to deal with something that heavy when you are surrounded by fraternity parties and football games, and when you realize that this isn't the common college experience. I couldn't really turn to any of my friends. I wasn't really in the mood to "Relax." In fact, I wasn't sure what mood I was in. I did feel desperate, sad, frustrated, angry...and alone.
Out of the horrible little speakers on my combo turntable/cassette/8-track I suddenly hear Bono saying it all.
"Bad" starts out the way I was feeling at the time, with a plea...a desire to fix it, to help the person, to make it go away.
If I could throw this lifeless
Lifeline to the wind
Leave this heart of clay
See you walk, walk away
I certainly was in fix-it mode; I wanted to make it better, take it away. There's nothing worse than watching someone you love descend into hell. There's also nothing to say, nothing to do, to make it better until that person wants to make it better. For those of us who have ever been wrapped up with addiction, who are used to covering up or enabling, the idea that you can't fix it for them is very hard to accept.
My friends liked the song but didn't love it; they had other favorites on the album. What they saw as a somewhat silly attempt to find a lot of rhyming words, I saw as the progression that someone goes through when they are faced with losing someone they love.
Desperation
Dislocation
Separation
Condemnation
Revelation
In temptation
Isolation
Desolation
Let it go
I reached the point in my relationship that I did have to let it go. I had to let it go for her benefit. How would she ever get better if she didn't suffer the consequences of any of her behavior? I also had to let it go for myself because I just couldn't stand to watch the destruction any longer.
I do remember the moment this finally happened. We were involved in a conversation, and she just looked me in the face and lied again. On the surface, she seemed as calm as could be, thanks to a little chemical help. But in her eyes, there it was: the storm.
True colors fly in blue and black
Bruised silken skies and burning flack
Colors crash, collide in bloodshot eyes
She was in another world and I couldn't even reach her. I believe she was as desperate as I was, as frustrated, and lost.
Surrender
Dislocate
"Bad" started out being about her; it ended up being about me.
When the infamous Live Aid performance of "Bad" came along, I was transfixed. There was Bono telling me the song was indeed about addiction. There was U2 on stage, not the biggest band there by any stretch, knocking it out of the park. I watched as U2 performed the song and Bono worked himself into the music, ultimately launching himself in desperation over a 20-foot drop to save the girl. To me, that dance transpired out of the song, out of Bono's getting so immersed in the music that he needed to go save someone. It made complete sense to me that it was "Bad," and not one of their more popular songs, that ultimately launched them into the stratosphere. Because the lyrics were so intimate, so personal, I felt that it made sense that their willingness to share them solidified the relationship with the fans.
It's hard to walk away from someone you love, someone you've been around and needed your entire life. It's especially hard to do this as a young adult just starting out in life and trying to find your way. - Surrender
-
When I was 24, I moved into an apartment in Chicago. It was the first lease I'd ever signed, the biggest city I'd ever lived in. I went with the goal of becoming a professional actor, with few belongings, some fears, many dreams. And with War.
Oh, the city is bright.
Those first nights I had the apartment to myself -- my roommate was moving in over the weekend -- and because I had no bed yet, I slept on the hardwood floor of the living room with the windows open. The trees outside rustled in the night breeze. Traffic rumbled. People laughed or argued or opened their hearts in snatches of conversation that drifted up to me three stories above. Music, always music, from cars and boom boxes and human voices humming as people walked. Everything smelled different. The city blew through the window right into me.
It's brighter than day tonight.
Surrender, surrender.
And I did. I surrendered to the city. I rode the El to temp jobs in the Loop, walked crowded streets between tall buildings full of people living lives that were like a distant dream to me. City lives.
Oh, the city's a fire,
A passionate flame
It knows me by name.
Music has always fueled my inner life, like a soundtrack to movies in my head where I imagine what I want to do or be. War was my soundtrack of the city. The first half of the album was for daytime: songs of certainty and purpose whose martial rhythms and pulsing melody lines reminded me to square my shoulders and step out strong, be brave, get things done. But halfway through, the album changed into songs of relationship and longing that expressed perfectly for me the passion and potential and ambivalence of living in the city. Those were the songs I came back to. I came back to "Surrender."
For me, "Surrender" was how it felt to be in the city at night -- smooth and sensuous and a little mysterious, a little dreamy. What I heard in the song was the heartbeat of the city. And I wanted to stand in that heartbeat. I wanted a city on fire for me. I wanted one of those lives I imagined when I stood in a crowded train rolling past neighborhoods where people lived in brownstones: where I would live, sitting in the summer sun on a small deck with a cup of tea to learn lines. I would go from one challenging acting role to another. I'd go to shows, to clubs, to restaurants with friends or lovers who would find me as interesting, as accomplished, as fascinating, as passionately engaged as they were. And then come home to my beautiful apartment that framed the city skyline in its windows, so the city itself would be part of the times alone or the times with friends as music and conversation wafted up into the soft night sky.
It was a powerful dream, this City Life of mine.
Sadie said she couldn't
Work out what it was all about.
And so she let go.
Starting out somewhere new can be so hard. Finding one's way, literally and emotionally, in a foreign place where you don't know the streets, the rhythms, the unspoken social and cultural rules, or even where to get a decent haircut, is stressful even when it all works out well. And when it doesn't, it's like falling from the highest rooftop, falling endlessly as the Hard Landing comes up at you, as you try to find anything to grab, any place to stand, any way to stop the crash.
I got a talent agent who sent me out to audition for a 16-year-old character on a national soap opera. "Great reading," the casting agent said, "but why should I hire you when I can get a real 16-year-old?" My talent agent suggested I get my teeth whitened and straightened and maybe think about breast implants, and when I didn't do any of those things she didn't send me anywhere anymore.
I found an acting class that went well. I took another. I began to have hope. I auditioned and auditioned, and one day got a role in a decent play in a small theater. But it was a disaster: badly cast, badly directed, and certainly the worst acting I've ever done, so embarrassing that I can't remember a single second of any performance, just the dull throb of misery that people were seeing it.
Surrender. Surrender.
I got a real job. I made some friends. I stayed in classes. I auditioned. I did my best. And my City Life was always just out of reach, always just around the corner, and I was sure that if I only hung on long enough it would find me.
But I began to hear the song differently. Now I heard not just the siren call of the city in Edge's guitar, in Bono's voice: now I also heard the story of how the dream doesn't always work out.
She tried to be a good girl...
Lead a good life.
It's not good enough.
I wasn't Sadie in the song, but I knew how she felt. I expected things to work out, and they didn't, and I didn't know why or what to do. Neither did Sadie; she only knew that doing what other people expected wasn't going to get her where she wanted to be.
Got to find out, find out what she's living for.
I'm the same age as the members of U2. One reason I've stayed connected to the music for 25 years is that it so often speaks to me of my own life, as if my slightly older brothers had sat me down and said, listen, Kelley, here's the thing... The music reminds me who I am and who I want to be. So when I found myself wondering again whether I should give in to those braces and breasts -- surrender to the necessity -- I couldn't do it. My dream wasn't about twisting myself out of shape, it was about being the deepest, brightest, most passionate self I could be.
So there it was: the City wasn't really the dream. The dream was how I would feel about myself and my life. In fact, I might have to give up the City to get to the dream. Might have to realize, like the song says, the City isn't the buildings and the buzz: It's in the things I do and say/And if I want to live/I've got to die to myself someday.
So I stuffed my things into my tiny red Toyota, climbed in and drove to Atlanta. Put War in the car cassette player and let it play endlessly across the fields of Indiana, over the gentle mountains of Tennessee, until there was another skyline on my horizon. And it took more years and more searching, but here I am now in Seattle, happy in a life that is nothing, nothing like I imagined my City Life would be, except that it feels just like I thought it would. My Irish brothers were right: it's in the things I do and say, and if I want to live I have to be true to myself but always ready to change, because whatever "the City Life" is to me or you, it's always a moving target. That's what I've surrendered to. - Walk On
Like a Song: Walk On
@U2, August 05, 2007
Maddy Fry
Seven years from when I first heard “Walk On,” it amazes me now to think of how little an impact the song had on me back then. My first recollection of it, as an 11-year-old, was in October 2000 when the music channel Q had the international version of the video playing on heavy rotation. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but in fact the video was played so many times that I would regularly change channels whenever I saw the familiar image of the plane coming down to land in Rio de Janeiro. I have no memory of really being moved by the song at that time. Perhaps it was because life was not so hard back then.
Things were very different when I next heard the song, nearly two years later, in August 2002. I had now somehow managed to survive two years of high school, two years which had been characterised by bullying, loneliness and isolation, things which, for childish reasons, I had never told my parents about.
It’s a well-worn cliché that people who are being bullied have a tendency to keep their experiences to themselves. Although I refused to tell my parents the details, they had an inkling of how unhappy I was. They were therefore keen for me to move schools, a thought that terrified me. Although life at the school I was attending felt like a living hell, the thought of changing to another school seemed even worse. For some reason, I was frightened of change.
My mum and dad became more and more frustrated as my behaviour seemed to go further and further beyond their understanding. I became increasingly plagued with feelings of guilt and despair, as I realised how little sense I was able to make of my own emotions, with it becoming more apparent to me that I’d let everyone down who wanted the best for me. And worse, I was stuck in a situation that there seemed to be no way out of, one that was all my own doing. Bitter and depressed, I thought of suicide several times.
And yet even months after “Walk On” had stopped being played regularly on the air waves, and despite how little notice I took of it when I first heard it, during my lowest moments I would often find that the refrain to the song would be going round and round in my head. Even though all I could remember were the words “Walk On, Walk On,” I found it very uplifting. From there, a strange hunger started to grow inside me for the song. I yearned to hear it again, so I went out and brought All That You Can’t Leave Behind.
The feeling I got when I heard “Walk On” again after nearly two years is one I don’t think I will ever forget. In Bono’s words, the shape of the room seemed to change; so did the temperature; it was as though up to that point I had been viewing the world completely in black and white, and in an instant it all changed to vivid colour. Even the first notes of Edge’s guitar, ringing out like the bells of heaven, made my heart feel as though it was about to burst, with Bono’s voice soaring out of the CD player feeling like an embrace:
“And if the darkness is to keep us apart
And if the daylight feels like it’s a long way off
And if your glass heart should crack
And for a second you turn back
Oh no
Be strong.”
It felt like all the oxygen was slowly being drained out of the room, but that didn’t matter. This song breathed for me, lived for me, spoke for me, understood me. Every single word of the lyrics felt like an articulation of all the miseries, worries and frustrations that I had felt unable to understand or explain, not only to others but to myself. It felt as if Bono was sitting right beside me, explaining to me why things were the way they were.
“You’re packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been
A place that has to be believed to be seen.
You could have flown away, a singing bird in an open cage
Who will only fly, only fly for freedom.
Oh, oh, walk on.”
Suddenly, I knew why it was that I didn’t want to move schools; school in general felt like a cage, and I didn’t want to fly straight from one cage into another. I wanted to get out and be free. I wanted to go somewhere where I could be free to be myself, not what other people wanted me to be.
The song was like a balm, soothing the hurt that I felt inside. It felt as though Bono was whispering in my ear “It’s not your fault. Forget about the past. There’s a better place waiting for you, but you’ve just got to be determined and believe that you will get there someday. Every little thing’s going to be just fine.” From that moment on, my obsession with U2 was cemented; there was no going back. These four men were the only people who understood me. This band had title to my soul.
Things changed when I read Niall Stokes’ book U2 Into The Heart: the stories behind every song. Until then, I’d had no idea that the song had been written about Aung San Suu Kyi. But as I read Stokes’ account of the appalling life of the Burmese dissident, the old feelings of guilt began to return. As ridiculous as it may sound, I began to feel guilty that I had ever derived any comfort from the song. OK, I’d had a slightly tough time in high school, but that was nothing compared to what Suu Kyi had been through. She had lost everything in her struggle to free Burma from the brutal grip of Gen. Than Shwe’s government: her family, her home, her liberty. “Walk On” was her song, not mine.
This revelation had meant that although “Walk On” still gave me some comfort, every time I listened to it I felt a sense of distance; I felt that, unlike Aung San Suu Kyi, I hadn’t really earned the right to feel that the song related to my own situation.
But things changed again when I saw the U.S. video of the song. Unlike the international version, this video seemed to depict a series of individuals each trying to cope with their own personal torment. The two videos seemed to reflect two different dimensions, or interpretations, of the song: one the heroic life of a human rights defender, the other the individual acts of strength and defiance made each day by ordinary people. And when I spoke to other U2 fans on the Internet, I found more and more people who had felt the same way as me; in particular, one girl for whom “Walk On” had been her angel song, compelling her to have the song’s name tattooed over her suicide scar. I stopped feeling so guilty after that.
There even came a point not long ago when I felt that I didn’t need the song anymore. I would sit down to listen to it, and find that none of the lyrics seemed to relate to anything that was happening in my life. But that became a thing to celebrate, as I realised that I was happy; I had finally reached that place that Bono had promised I would, the place that had to be believed to be seen. And when I looked at everything I was doing in my life, I realised that all of it was either directly or indirectly linked to U2 in some way. The ‘Hallelujahs’ at the end of the single version of “Walk On” then became a joyful prayer of thanks to the band for having given me the strength to get this far.
And even when things started to go wrong again – exam stress, broken relationships, my parents’ divorce – the song took on yet another dimension for me; that of the need to find home.
“Home
Hard to know what it is if you’ve never had one
Home
I can’t say where it is but I know I’m going home,
That’s where the hurt is.”
The place that I had lived in for so long, having now become characterised by my parents’ rows, no longer truly felt like home; the song seemed to be saying that the time had now come to leave all the baggage I’d accumulated from living in one place behind and go and search for the place that really felt like home – wherever that may be.
So to me “Walk On” has been a song that has changed to suit the moment I happen to be in, managing to be intimate whilst also capturing the universal nature of human suffering. Its message seems to be that love can triumph over the things that we do to each other, and to ourselves. I don’t think that there are many bands that can claim that with just one song they’ve managed to not only change lives but save lives; I know I’m not the only one for whom U2 have done both.
- Miracle Drug
Like a Song: Miracle Drug
@U2, October 28, 2007
Liseth Meijer
For me, Bono's funny counting in "Vertigo" isn’t the only Spanish connection in How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. The whole album has a Latin theme for me, and especially "Miracle Drug" brings to mind a mixture of sunshine and melancholy.
In 2004, I spent three and a half months in Central America. The sun would wake me at 6, ready to start a new day in San José, Costa Rica. At the time, I was an intern at an Non Governmental Organization that provided micro credits for women who ran small businesses. My job was to interview participants and write newsletters, promotional material and the annual financial report.
It was special, being part of a different culture, being in a different country and speaking a foreign language all day. It provided the opportunity to get to know new people, new places and new activities. Traveling has always been one of my dreams and this internship felt like a dream job when I started. It was exciting, enchanting, exhausting. But I soon discovered that it could also be lonely and frustrating at times.
Initially I lived with a colleague's family, which included her, a brother and her parents as well as a family friend, a girl about my age who was also working in the city. We became good friends, but there wasn't always a lot of time to hang out, as she worked long days and was always tired in the evenings. There wasn't much else to do either, as the TV held little of interest apart from a few movies with a flood of commercial breaks.
At work, my co-workers were nice people. But the president was always extremely busy, and she was the person who had to approve my articles. For me, being an inexperienced worker, it was difficult to get the attention I needed for my work and the ideas and suggestions I came up with. Sometimes I felt all but invisible and wondered what I was really doing there, so far away from home.
Listening to U2 music provided an anchor for me, a connection to the home front, something I could do wherever I was. Still, I nearly missed the rejoicing fact of a new U2 album as I was so busy. It was therefore a very pleasant surprise when I finally checked online and saw that the release was only days away. As soon as I got off from work on release day, I picked up a copy of HTDAAB and was just thrilled with anticipation.
However, I had to wait, since I didn’t have a computer with a CD-ROM player. But by that time, my housing situation had improved, and I lived in a house with two American and two German students. One of them had a laptop and he put the music on a minidisk for me.
Immediately, I had no need for any other music. I listened whenever I could, and "Miracle Drug" became a special song for me.
I want to trip inside your head, spend the day there
To hear the things you haven't said and see what you might see
With the dreamy start, my thoughts would drift away. At the start of the song, I would imagine looking inside someone's head and seeing a stream of thoughts float out, suddenly perceptible by others. It made me think about my communication with the home front and whether my friends really thought about me and missed me.
The songs are in your eyes, I see them when you smile
I imagined looking into my boyfriend's eyes, hearing the songs we always treasured together. It was difficult, not being able to do that.
"Miracle Drug" also made me think about relationships and about questions of honesty. I wondered, if one could really look inside someone else's thoughts and hear what they really think, would that be a pleasant or painful experience? Thoughts can be crude and without balance; it is not without reason that people don't always express them. On the other hand, it could be a really good thing to look through someone else's eyes for a day, to understand that person better. It would make many things much clearer, especially the differences between men and women and between different cultures.
But most of all, the song became a source of support for me. When I felt lonely or out of place, Bono was there to help me get back on my feet.
There is no failure here sweetheart, just when you quit...
It was as if he sang into my ear, encouraging me to keep going. Those lyrics put things in perspective, reminding me that it wasn't all so bad, that I would make it in spite of deadlines and frustrations. It was there at 6 a.m. when I was working out in the gym and at night if there was no one around. "Miracle Drug" literally became a musical medicine, embracing and comforting me and making me think of the good things that were present and would be waiting in the future.
- Mercy
Like a Song: Mercy
@U2, December 22, 2007
Sherry Lawrence
I have to confess, I love the month of December. December is a month full of opportunities to revisit how the year has gone, how relationships have either faded or grown closer, and how you have somehow managed to survive yet another year on this planet. December is also one of the holy months of the year for many around the world who celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or their respective spiritual observance.
It's easy to get caught up in the cyclone of gift buying, family get-togethers, television specials starring The Grinch or Santa Claus, and figuring out how to hide the presents from each other in the house until the time is right to open them. Granted, these are all expected things to do during this season, but I grew up knowing that "Jesus was the reason for the season."
I grew up in the Catholic church where you'd only see most of the congregation at the annual Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, finishing up a couple hours later very early on Christmas morning. The organ music, the solemn procession of everyone involved, and the songs in Latin were all elements of the ceremony to celebrate the birth of who we believe to be the son of God, Jesus Christ. Fast-forward a few decades, and I'm now attending a Baptist church with my family, and while the church services are slightly different, the celebration is still the same. In my faith, without Jesus, there is no bridge between us and God because of sin. Jesus saved us through his sacrifice on the cross 33 years after his birth, and because of that he has given us the gift of forgiveness from sin and a relationship with God.
Faith isn't an easy thing for me to talk about, nor is it something that comes up naturally in conversation where I live. Bono seems to speak of it quite easily in song, and through U2's music, I've been able to open up a bit more about what I believe and share it with others. One song in particular has helped me down that path is "Mercy."
"Mercy" is an unreleased track from the How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb sessions, and as it stands now, is only available to those who were fortunate enough to have been a part of the viral network of fans online. Bono is still confused as to how the song leaked, but once it did it spread like wildfire. Bono mentioned in May 2007 that the song will appear on the next U2 album. It should be noted that "Mercy" received the most votes by @U2 readers for the band Zoo Station to perform at the @U2 10th Anniversary Bash in Portland, Oregon in 2005.
The song starts off with a nod to receiving communion, "I was drinking some wine and it turned to blood." In the Catholic faith, you are not allowed to receive communion unless you have gone through the act of confession. I was taught that you had to be pure before God in order to receive the holy sacrament of the host and the wine, which represented the body and blood of Jesus Christ as described in the Last Supper prior to Christ's crucifixion. To me, it's as if Bono has opened the song as a confession of sorts as communion would not have been available otherwise.
However, in true Bono fashion, the next line says "what’s the use of religion if you’re any good," as if to throw the idea out there of doubt about needing a higher being if you’re a good person. Throughout the first and second verses, he's having a conversation between himself and "you," which could represent anyone. He is speaking in the first verse, and it seems like the second verse is "you" speaking. The chorus and the bridge in the song repairs the relationship between the two, with the last verse celebrating a healing, a re-birth if you will.
As fans know, Bono's a clever songwriter as he's able to weave political, spiritual, and relational themes into any song. I see his song writing in "Mercy" to be a forerunner for the song "Window in the Skies," where I believe his reference to "Love" is that of God. The Bible says in 1 John 4:8 "Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love." (New International Version)
Every December, I like to take some quiet time and have a similar conversation with the God I believe in, giving thanks for everything He has given to me and my family because I do not deserve it. I go through a similar conversation and confession as Bono does in "Mercy" giving all of the ways I'm not worthy of the blessings God has poured out because as it says in "Mercy," "You wanted violins and you got Nero." I love that line because in Roman history, Nero played the violin as Rome burned, and I can relate to that with relationships and situations in my life.
As I've come to learn over the years, not only does God love me, He shows me a little thing called mercy. Mercy is when you receive compassion when you don't deserve it. Thinking about all of the sermons I've heard in church, there is no way I could receive compassion from God had it not been for the sacrifice of His son, and if there is an event I should be celebrating with every ounce of my body and soul, it needs to be that of Jesus' birth. I guess the pastors and priests were right..."Jesus is the reason for the season."
So, this December, I'll still go ahead with all of the baking, television specials, photos with Santa Claus, and the other pop culture things that are fringe benefits of the season, but I'll add "Mercy" to my Christmas music play list on the iPod. To me, it's Bono’s most personal song where we eavesdrop on a private confession in the hopes it will turn a life around for eternity. I can confess, it did for me.- Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own
Like a Song: Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own
@U2, February 04, 2008
Jennifer Tomooka
My father suffered two massive heart attacks in February and March 2007. Up until that time, my father was a very strong man. Even though he had smoked for most of his 70 years of life, he was in good health and was rarely sick. He was an avid walker and gardener. So, when he collapsed suddenly one night and we discovered he had a heart attack, the whole family was shocked and thrown into a tailspin. How could this be happening? Seeing my father in the cardiac intensive care unit was surreal. I couldn't believe that my dad, whom I had never seen in a hospital in my life, was suddenly dependent on machines to help him breathe. My family and I spent days in the hospital, taking turns visiting dad and supporting each other. I wanted desperately to find answers to my many questions, but I also had to prepare myself for the worst-case scenario: what if my dad died?
While sitting in the waiting room one afternoon, I had a rare moment by myself and decided to put my iPod on shuffle and find solace in music. As my luck would have it, the first song that came up was "Sometimes You Can't Make It on Your Own." My first instinct was to skip the song altogether. I didn't want to hear a song Bono had composed for his late father and their relationship. That was too real. Too raw.
I always had a hard time listening to the song because it made me think of my relationship with my father in the first place, and the last thing I needed at that moment in time was to listen to a song that would bring all of that into focus. But, as Edge's guitar gently played, I didn't press the skip button. I knew that listening to this song would help me deal with all of the craziness that was surrounding me. I closed my eyes and let the sound of Bono's voice help me in one of the darkest times of my life.
Tough, you think you've got the stuff
You're telling me and everyone you're hard enough
My father had a difficult childhood. He carried these painful memories with him into adulthood. While he was a loving and caring father to my siblings and I, he was not shown unconditional love in his formative years. As a result, there was a hardness to him that would come out during moments of stress or high emotion. It's no wonder that as I sat in the waiting room I also tried to steel myself against something frightening and scary that I couldn't control or wish away. My friends knew that my father had had a heart attack, but I kept assuring them that I was OK, that I was with family and being taken care of, and not to worry about me. What an absurd thing to say! Of course I wasn't OK! My father was fighting for his life, and here I was trying to tell everyone I was OK, as if I had just misplaced my keys or something.
Listen to me now.
I need to let you know you don't have to go it alone.
As the song progressed, tears began to flow. All of the emotions that I had kept bottled up inside erupted, and I was a wet, slobbery mess. I cried for the fear of losing my dad before I was ready to say goodbye. I cried for my mother losing her husband of over 40 years. The more I thought about it, the more worked up and excited I got until I heard Bono cutting through all the noise in my head, assuring me that I wasn't alone. There was much to be afraid of, yes, but now was the time to make peace with my dad and to let everything that had stood between us before this moment dissolve away to start with a clean slate. As the song continued, I went along for the journey and took stock of my relationship with my dad.
We fight all the time
You and I...that's all right
We're the same soul
Like Bono, I was more like my dad than I cared to admit for much of my life. I always identified my dad with the qualities that weren't always complimentary, like stubbornness and a quick temper. There are many happy memories of my childhood with my dad, but there are also memories of clashes and conflict over a number of issues, as I struggled to find my own voice and independence. I wanted my dad's approval and I wanted him to be proud of me, but I also disagreed with him. I was afraid that he wouldn't love me if I didn't always bring home good grades, or agree with him politically, or be the child I thought he wanted me to be. It wasn't until well into my adult years that I understood that my dad wanted me to be myself, because he understood how difficult it was to stand up to his parents and be at odds with them.
Can you hear me when I sing?
You're the reason I sing
You're the reason why the opera is in me
My dad was not a lover of opera, but he did teach me his love of sports, especially baseball and football; how to catch fish with Velveeta cheese; how to be a great storyteller; how to be a loyal and trustworthy friend; how to fill your life with purpose and strength of character; and how to have an open and caring heart. He's the reason I have a rascally spirit, because he had the same one. One of the greatest compliments I ever received in my life was my dad telling me that I had a kind heart just like he did and that he recognized it as his own.
Where are we now?
Don't leave me here alone
The closing shot of SYCMIOYO in U2 3D is of Bono reaching out to hug his dad. This was the most touching and most powerful moment of the film for me. My father passed away in his sleep on Oct. 28, 2007. I never got to say goodbye. I wish I could hug my dad one more time and tell him I loved him. I wish we could share a laugh or watch sports together again. I wish he would be able to walk me down the aisle when I marry, or hold my children when they are born. There are times when I feel like a child, stamping my foot at the injustice I feel about having to celebrate important milestones in my life without him, and it angers and saddens me at the same time.
And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you that makes it hard to let go
When I hit these moments of despair, when the depression over my dad's death threatens to cripple me, I realize my dad will always be around, because he left so much of himself within me. There are times when I look at pictures and I see dad's mannerisms in the way I pose, or the way I smile; or I find myself delivering a punch line in the very same tone he would use. I'm thankful to have these gentle reminders of his life with me.
For many years, it was hard for me to emotionally let go of the fighting and disagreements we had. Once the heart attacks happened, and I had to face his mortality, it made it hard to let go of him physically. I finally understood the sacrifices he made in his own life to provide for his family and that much of our fighting came from frustration on his end to understand the daughter he loved so deeply, but could not always find the right words to express it.
The best you can do is to fake it.
I used to wonder why Bono would pen and then perform such a personal song. I marveled at his strength to sing that song every night and put himself in such an emotional place in the middle of a concert. The song makes me cry every time I hear it. How in the world could Bono sing without breaking down? But, now that I have had to deal with the loss of a parent, I understand his need to be open about his feelings and to share them with others. I've found it's the only real way to honor the memory of the loved one lost and heal those of us who are left behind.
My initial reaction to dad's death was to talk about my feelings only with my family. I didn't want to keep reliving everything by telling and re-telling the story to friends who I knew wanted to support me, but didn't know what was going on. I used to avoid listening to the song at all costs, but now take great comfort in it, knowing that I am not alone in my sorrow, nor in the support from people who love and care about me. The song is as much a reminder of the struggle with my dad as it is a song about opening yourself up to others when you are at your most vulnerable place in life.
Sometimes you can't make it on your own.
I miss you, dad, but I hear you when I laugh; I feel you when I hug others; and I see you when I smile.
- Tomorrow
Tomorrow
@U2, July 31, 2008
Liseth Meijer
"Tomorrow" is one of those songs that is special to me. Not so much for its melody, composition, or lyrics. I don't like it in the same way I love the energy of "Elevation" or the moving story told in "One." But I recognize the simple, yet urgent question the song revolves around:
Won't you come back tomorrow?
A question to which the answer will always remain a stunning blow from reality.
No.
March 1, 1986. It was an early spring evening, just after dinner. My mother put a tape in the video recorder for me and my biovular twin sister. In all likelihood it was an episode of Nils Holgersson, a Swedish cartoon we adored.
My father wasn't feeling great, so he decided to go to bed for a while to see if he would feel any better. None of us could have imagined it would be the last time we saw him alive. But that evening, he died in his sleep. Without any warning, with no known illness. Only 36 years of age, leaving behind his wife and two 4-year-old girls.
Losing a parent at such an early age was an experience with great impact. Four-year-olds are just beginning to explore the world and become aware of other people and their relationship to them. Three to four years old is also the age at which we start to actively remember
significant events. The sad thing is, I don't have that many memories of my father. There's a handful of them, and everything else I know about him is through stories told by other people. So essentially, I miss someone I never really knew.
Outside
Somebody's outside
Somebody's knocking at the door
There's a black car parked
At the side of the road
Don't go to the door
Don't go to the door
After I became a U2 fan, I started reading up on the band's past to grasp some of its history. When I read about Bono's mother dying when Bono was 14, and then Larry's mother when he was 17, it gave me a sense of personal connection. Here were my newfound heroes, and they weren't sheltered from grief or misfortune. The death of their parents resembled my own experience: sudden and unannounced.
October was one of the last albums I bought, so it took a while until I heard "Tomorrow". But by then I already knew what the song was about. There was a palpable despair and fear in the song, fear of the awful truth that is inevitably revealed when "the door is opened." From the first time I heard it, it made me feel uncomfortable, because it gave me such a haunting sense of sadness. Although there are many differences -- Bono and Larry both lost their mothers instead of their fathers, and they were teenagers instead of young children -- the essence of the song remains the same: the longing of a child for a deceased parent. To me the song said: "I know how you feel, it's OK to be sad."
I'm going out
I'm going outside mother
I'm going out there
"Tomorrow" also became a symbol for the bond between the band members, emphasizing the remarkable relationship they have, especially the friendship between Bono and Larry. In a talk show interview in the '80s, Larry once said it was his favourite song.
In the book Bono on Bono: Conversations with Michka Assayas, Bono admits that he can't remember his mother anymore, that he no longer knows what she looked like and what she was like. In a way, it must be even worse for him to not remember her, because he did know her for 14 years.
Who healed the wounds
Who heals the scars
Open the door
Open the door
For my mother, it was of course a great shock, suddenly being a widow, left behind with two little girls. She did her best to provide us with the security we needed, materially as well as mentally. The three of us developed a stronger bond, a bond that enabled us to mutually support one another while coping with such loss.
But as a child, I was quite serious about life and always less carefree than other kids my age. There was an awareness in the back of my mind that life wasn't just fun and that things could actually go wrong. There isn't always a safety net to save you when you lose your balance. Yet it also made me more independent, not expecting others to take care of things for me. I learned to think for myself and listen to my own intuition.
Of course, one gets used to the situation, so having only one parent is not something I think about every day. But sometimes, when relatives tell stories about my father, or when friends have funny accounts of things their fathers do, it makes me angry that my dad had to die so young and that I never had a chance to get to know him. It's a sense of frustration, which once again I can feel in the song, when Bono sings near the end:
I want you to be back tomorrow
I want it, I need it, yet it is impossible.
"Tomorrow" is a reminder that, however unwelcome, however unfair it may seem, death is a part of life. It eloquently expresses the emotions surrounding the death of a loved one in a harrowing piece of music and lyrics. That's why it will always be precious to me, like a gem: beautiful, but also hard.- MLK
MLK
@U2, February 27, 2008
Joe Herbert
Dreams have been a powerful force for as long as we have been on this planet, and they have helped shape many ancient civilizations. Although many cultures no longer look upon dreams as important, they are still important to many on a personal level. Maybe that is why many people refer to their hopes,plans and visions as dreams. Dreams are powerful, mystical, and they speak to our core being. We ignore them at our own peril.
The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream. Born in America, he lived in a time and place where the concept of civil rights was still not widely accepted. Preaching nonviolent protest as the tool to draw attention to his cause of equality for all, Dr. King traveled extensively and spoke at numerous events and gatherings in an effort to further encourage change. While civil rights had been legalized almost a century earlier in the United States, there were many pockets of resistance, especially in the Deep South. Some elements of the government even considered Dr. King and his message a threat.
Despite this controversy and the threats made against him, Dr. King continued forward on his march to achieve equality for everyone regardless of the color of their skin. Knowing that he and his cause were hated by some, and knowing that his life was in danger for the cause he espoused, Dr. King was still able to speak these words on Aug. 28, 1963, during his famous "I Have a Dream" speech:
"Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force."
Pursuing his dream of equality for all in the most selfless way imaginable, Dr. King's life was eventually taken. Fortunately, his dream inspired many others to pick up where he left off. Sitting here 45 years later, it gives us hope that his dream draws ever closer to reality when a man like Barack Obama can be a realistic and valid candidate for the office of president of the United States.
Like ancient cultures and Dr. King, who both used dreams to shape their world, I also have dreams. Like all of these people, my dreams concern myself, my loved ones and the greater good -- at least as I see it. Some dreams seem to be at odds with each other and create an inner struggle. I dream of becoming less materialistic while another dream is that those closest to me have everything they need. I dream of strengthening the areas of myself that I find lacking while also dreaming of not becoming a self-absorbed person. I dream of a world where justice and equality create an atmosphere of respect for all while struggling not to be drawn in to the corporate world where self-promotion is required to move ahead. Finding the proper balance is very difficult.
Sometimes it seems that these things are only possible when I sleep.
"MLK" is the final song on The Unforgettable Fire. It starts with an organ holding one chord. The chord clearly started before I got there. Perhaps it has been there throughout time. The volume comes up slowly to envelop me in a cocoon of comforting sound. It is a place where I can let down the walls I put up throughout the day to protect myself. I trust that nothing bad can happen here.
Sleep
Sleep tonight
A voice beckons from deep within the sanctuary built here. He is drawing deep breaths and stretching syllables as one might experience in a dream state. Soothingly, he addresses me.
I am invited to sleep knowing that I must set aside all of my life concerns in order to re-energize for the next day. I am invited to sleep tonight because I must go through this cycle every day to stay healthy and to take on daily challenges with the greatest chance of success. Some days, letting go of the day can be a huge challenge. Whether the day went so well that I don't want it to end or it went so poorly that it can't end soon enough, letting go can be difficult. Nothing is permanent. I need to trust in that and not get tied to the day regardless of how it went.
And may your dreams
Be realized
The realization of a dream is one of life's great payoffs. I remember the first time I saw an article of mine in a national magazine. I wanted to run around the book store I was in to show everyone and tell them that this was me. The invitation to have this level of joy in my life is there every day, but accepting it can be difficult when things are going poorly.
If the thunder cloud
Passes rain
So let it rain
Rain down on him
I see obstacles all the time as I try to realize my dreams. Some seem large and some seem small, but the reality is that they are only as big as I allow them to become. My attitude must remain positive no matter what. I know that obstacles are temporary and that dreams can only be reached after much struggle. This, too, shall pass. That can be hard for me to see.
Mmmmmmm
So let it be
Mmmmmmm
So let it be
The humming that accompanies the lyrics is critical to the song and the tone being set. Whether seen as a parent comforting a child or an adult bonding with their significant other, this warm sound describes without words the depth of the relationship between speaker and listener. The organ changes to a deeper chord. It implores me to trust the words being sung at an even deeper level. It reaches beyond intelligence to my very core.
I am told to let it be. Don't attack those who would do what they can to prevent me from reaching my dreams. I'm guilty of temporarily setting aside my dreams and instead detouring to consider enforcing some type of retribution on someone I feel has hurt me. Though I've never carried it out, the time taken to contemplate this is a negative use of energy that serves no useful purpose and hurts only me. I hope that one day I'll get past this.
The song continues with a repeat of the first verse.
It is repeated like a mantra or a prayer is repeated because the words are sacred or spiritual.
It is repeated so the lesson can be learned.
It is repeated to give me the power to accept the words as truth when I am searching to grab on to something stationary while everything seems to float away in my life.
It is repeated to be a shield from all that might hurt me while I sleep after a long and arduous day.
It is repeated as a lullaby is repeated to the child inside me so that I can find comfort in the symmetry of the pattern and relax enough to enter into peaceful sleep.
The lyrics come to an end, but the greater force symbolized by the organ remains behind as a point of reference. It was there before I was there and it will be there after I am gone. It is time. It is the universe. It is the human spirit. It is the sum of all dreams. I know that I am a small piece in the infinite jigsaw puzzle of life, but I have an important part to play.
And if I'm lucky, I may just realize another dream along the way.- Where The Streets Have No Name
Where The Streets Have No Name
@U2, March 19, 2008
Angela Pancella
On Feb. 1st, 2006, I moved from my hometown of St. Louis, Mo., to Cincinnati, Ohio. I moved to join an “intentional Christian community” — well, that’s one way to refer to it, anyhow. I found that even when I used neutral words to describe the place, my friends would look at me funny. “So...it’s a bunch of people living together and sharing meals and praying a lot?” they said. “Whatever you do, Angela, don’t drink the Kool-Aid.” Since it didn’t matter what I called it, I gave up on trying to make it sound safe and took to calling my new residence the Artsy-Fartsy Jesus Freak Crazy Commune Cult House. (The “Artsy-Fartsy” is in loving tribute to the large number of painters, photographers, musicians and puppeteers involved in the community the house is part of.)
The AFJFCCC House used to be a Roman Catholic rectory. The community that owns it now bought a whole set of Catholic real estate — a convent, a church, and the aforementioned priest’s house — from the archdiocese; these places had been vacant since a parish had been closed. The rectory is old and spacious, designed to house a passel of priests; I lived there with as many as eight other people, families and singles. I had a room and a bathroom to myself, but I ate breakfasts and dinners in common with my housemates. Of an evening there’d be spontaneous gatherings for movies or favorite TV shows; in good weather we’d hang out on the back deck with music shuffling out of an iPod. Many of our neighbors were folks who had lived in the AFJFCCC House or the convent building before buying or renting close by (something I’ve done myself; I now live half a block away). So if, say, we had a party out on the back deck, friends would amble over, lured by the tunes wafting out to the street or the smell of bratwurst on the barbecue.
The weekend after I moved in there was a Super Bowl party. Among the people who showed up was a guy named Chad. I overheard him talking excitedly about seeing U2 in concert. I was looking forward to getting to know him because, hey, it’s always great to find fellow fans you can gush about U2 with.
Not long afterward — just a few weeks — I heard Chad was in the hospital. And days after that, in mid-March, this husband and father of two little boys had died, and the whole community was in shock. Friends and family gathered from across the state and across the country for his memorial service. It was held in the beautiful old church next door to the AFJFCCC House.
The call went out beforehand for help cleaning up and setting up the church building for the memorial. A group of people were going to gather in the morning of the day of the service to get the place looking beautiful. Not having known Chad, but feeling like I would have liked to, I wandered in.
The light streamed through vividly colored stained glass. Plaster angels, some broken, some whole, were perched atop pillars and resting in corners. As I walked up the aisle to where small gatherings of friends were sweeping and dusting and unstacking chairs, I heard the deep tones of an organ.
Before I could glance instinctively up to the choir loft (where an honest-to-goodness pipe organ sat unused and magnificent) there came the cascade of guitar tones that I will never call familiar, no matter how many times I hear them. And then the kick-start insistence of the drums, and the racing-pulse heartbeat of the bass, and the ache of the voice trying desperately to say what only music, out of all our gifts, can:
I want to run
I want to hide
I want to tear down the walls
That hold me inside
I just stood there and listened. I don’t think I’d ever heard a U2 song in a church building before - certainly not cranked up, and certainly not in the morning before a service saying goodbye. I love old church buildings, but they are so often solemn places; I wasn’t exactly expecting to hear a beloved U2 song reverberating in the Gothic stillness. But it worked, somehow.
The sunlight was broken into colors by the stained glass as the chords were broken into arpeggios by Edge; the vast space, like a concert hall, was filled with the sound, yet nearly empty of people; the ache of loss pushed up right against the wonder of hope. I had never before experienced how a song could be so suited to a space and time and circumstance - except I say that every time I hear “Streets.”
I want to reach out
And touch the flame
Where the streets have no name
For days the AFJCCC House was packed with people talking, praying, tapping out blog entries on laptops, listening to U2 songs on constant shuffle on Chad’s U2 iPod. “Grace” seemed to come on a lot. There was grace here - mixed in, mixed up with the sadness. I felt in “Streets,” with its background in Bono and Ali’s time spent in Ethiopia during the famine, a response to a tragic situation that resonated with me. I was so new to town, I didn’t really know this community, yet there we all were together in mourning. You want to respond any way you can.
I want to feel
Sunlight on my face
See the dust cloud disappear
Without a trace
How can such an incredible song come out of tragedy? Grace makes beauty out of ugly things. There’s an exchange going on here, death for life. You can take raw emotional material and shape it into something useful and good. And true. Art, or creativity, is transformative, and the deeper and sadder the source it’s drawing from, the higher and nobler the result can be.
I want to take shelter from the poison rain
Where the streets have no name...
We’re still building, then burning down love...
And when I go there
I go there with you
It’s all I can do
Compassion is key, I think. The Latin is “com-passio” — it means “suffering with,” a coming together to be with each other, even in — especially in — sad times.
You can learn a lot about a community by the way it mourns. I saw the folks in and around the AFJFCCC House stand up to death, face it square. I saw them hold on when anyone needed to cry, and heard them play U2 songs loud in their church. Knowing they could do all this helped reinforce my decision to move there. These were the sort of people I could picture myself wanting to be around for a long time.
The city’s a flood
And our love turns to rust
We’re beaten and blown by the wind
Trampled in dust
I’ll show you a place
High on a desert plain
Where the streets have no name
“There is a crack in everything,” Leonard Cohen sings. “That’s how the light gets in.” I’ve never been one to think that the world of ATMs and billboards and breakfast cereal is the only one to be had, but when a death occurs, the cracks in the ordinary grow a little wider, and more light comes spilling in. What seemed important before grows faded and pale; what seemed hardly worth noticing before leaves a shadow like a scar in the brightness.
I’ve got lots of memories of “Streets” — roadtrips where it started playing as a remarkable landscape came into view, concerts where joy shone out of every face as the lights blazed on, the simple delight of listening to it with friends. The song has acquired new levels of meaning over the years — it was a rallying cry on the Vertigo tour, it was an offering when Bono recited Psalm 116 before it (“What can I give back to God...?”) on the Elevation tour. But in the church before Chad’s memorial service and now always and everywhere, it felt like, feels like, an invitation to that place the light is coming from.
- In A Little While
In A Little While
@U2, May 03, 2008
Tassoula E. Kokkoris
The first time I heard the song live, it was a lullaby. Really, it was.
If I'd had a baby to put to sleep that night, the calming coos of Bono's velvety voice and the quiet strumming of The Edge's guitar would have done the trick. It made no difference that I was in the Tacoma Dome surrounded by thousands of other people. It was that peaceful.
When I first heard All That You Can't Leave Behind in the fall of the prior year, "In A Little While" was my only star. The album was a good, solid album, but this song was the only one that captured my heart in a love-at-first-listen sort of way.
The Tacoma show was the first Elevation show I attended, and the way the crowd silenced for this rendition of the song was amazing. Bono's words sounded much softer than the raspy studio version as he danced sweetly with one of Edge's daughters. The lights were down and the spotlight was following them. When it ended, the hypnotic vibe hung in the air like a tangible guest.
The sound was so beautiful it stayed with me long after I left the venue. When I got home that night from a stressful drive back to Seattle, I put All That You Can't Leave Behind in my stereo and programmed it to play only this song. And then I set it to repeat.
A few weeks later, in full U2-obsession mode, I had my solo trip to Ireland booked (I just had to see them at Slane) and was getting all of my ducks in a row before leaving the country. The bad news was, my wisdom teeth needed to come out, and they needed to be removed before my trip. I had three months to accomplish this, but I procrastinated the surgery as long as I could. In July, my sweet mother came up from Oregon to provide round-the-clock care for her 25-year-old baby during the process.
It was bad from the get-go. I am terribly squeamish and high maintenance when it comes to anything medical. I can't watch doctor shows on TV or look at friends who have recently had casts or bandages removed. And when it's about me, I'm a hundred times more pathetic.
The morning of the surgery was a nightmare -- I was sleep deprived, scared and shaky. The surgeon's attempts to get a needle in my arm for the IV were borderline comical. I was jumping around, breaking into cold sweats, crying -- you name it, I was guilty of it. After nearly fainting, they decided it wasn't going to happen without the aid of some medicine (read: Valium). And after that, they probably could've asked me to do it myself and I would've obliged. The doctor asked me how many days I had left until the U2 concert, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up with chipmunk cheeks and small metal snaps across my chest.
My mom and I returned to my apartment where I looked forward to settling in to all of the perks I'd been promised the surgery would provide: endless milkshakes, fantastic narcotics and rapid weight loss.
But those were all lies.
What I actually endured were multiple cartons of butterscotch pudding, which tasted as if they'd been seasoned with dried blood; drugs that not only made me nauseous, but caused my body temperature to rise (and keep in mind, it was summertime); and a few extra pounds, courtesy of said pudding, coupled with the fact I seldom got out of bed.
In the midst of my misery, my mother did her absolute best to make me comfortable. She was there fluffing pillows, preparing ice packs and responding to my every demand. I was grateful to have her there, but that didn't stop me from behaving like a 5-year-old.
On day three I was especially whiny, as my body was acclimating to the pills, and the soreness in my mouth reached its most painful levels. I just laid there and whimpered as if there were no hope for relief. She said "What can I do to make you feel better?" I responded, "Put All That You Can't Leave Behind in and fast-forward to number six." She dutifully complied and I tried to keep the tears to a minimum so we could both hear the song. I was still in pain, but I could swear it had lessened as Bono crooned.
I slowly drifted off to sleep, and when I woke up, the pain had returned. I begged for the ice pack, and Mom was right there to deliver it, telling me that everything would soon be all right. She asked if I'd like the music back on, and I said yes. As the CD spun "In a Little While" again, she told me that I should visualize tomorrow, because the pain wouldn't be nearly as bad then. I shot her a questioning glance, and she reiterated that in the most painful times of her life -- physically or emotionally -- she's put herself in the frame of mind that the next day it wouldn’t hurt as bad, and that has helped her through. I promised I'd try and concentrated with all my might on the next day. I pictured myself getting out of bed, dressing in something other than pajamas, taking a walk in the fresh air. It was working.
The next morning I did feel better -- and I did all the things I'd envisioned. The day after that, I was well enough to return to work and mom was free to return home, relieved of her nursing gig.
In the months that followed, I was injured at a concert, my grandmother passed away, 9/11 happened, and the office I worked in underwent a huge restructure, which left me employed, but many of my friends without a job. "In a Little While" became more like a mantra than just another U2 song I loved. By then I knew it was written about a hangover, and that it was the last song Joey Ramone listened to before he passed away, but that didn't change its meaning for me.
To this day, "In a Little While" lowers my blood pressure and sets my mind at ease no matter what situation I'm in, but most importantly it serves as a reminder of my mother's wise advice: when things get bad, just focus on tomorrow.
- Falling At Your Feet
Falling At Your Feet
@U2, May 24, 2008
Sherry Lawrence
Good Friday, 2003. I woke up like I normally would and started my day with my usual pattern. At about 7:10 a.m., the phone rings. It’s my cousin calling from New Hampshire. She’s horrified that she’s the one who has to break the news to me as no one else in my family realized that I wasn’t called.
“There’s been a horrible accident. Your father was hit head-on at high-speed by a drunk driver. They don’t know if he’s going to make it. The drunk driver did not make it.”
My entire world changed in that instant. The numbness that flowed through my veins was overcome by my sudden realization that I have to drop everything and drive two hours to the hospital. I have to figure out what happened, what’s happening, what has to happen, etc. While my head was trying to take over, my heart was breaking and bleeding – crying out “Lord, save him. Do whatever you need to do – keep him alive.” Being an only child, I knew great responsibility was now falling on my shoulders.
It was one of the fastest two-hour drives I ever took. Fortunately, my husband drove. I was constantly on my cell phone calling various family members, state police units, and my co-workers. I became amazingly efficient in taking the most horrifying life situation I found myself in and making it very black-and-white. Now was not the time to let my emotions get the best of me. Now was not the time to let my Dad down.
I had packed as if I had to both plan a funeral and move into my Mom’s for an extended period of time given that we didn’t know if my Dad was going to make it. Through the chaos, I realized that I had packed a Christmas tie for my husband forgetting that the holiday was really Easter. I think I also packed two left shoes.
“Every chip from every cup / Every promise given up / Every reason that’s not enough / Is falling, falling at your feet.”
It’s amazing how fast your mind can allow you to think. I was thinking back to my wedding, just nine months prior to that, and how my Dad danced with me, how proud he was, and all of the promise of the “future.” I wasn’t going to give up those promises – I wasn’t going to allow this reason to be enough.
Yet, I had no control. I could only step in and monitor the care he was being given in ICU, communicate with the family about his care, and sign the necessary paperwork to let the medical team do what they needed to.
“Every one who needs a friend / Every life that has no end / Every knee not ready to bend / Is falling, falling at your feet / I’ve come crawling, falling at your feet.”
Given my faith, I knew that the only entity that was in control here was God. For the next two-and-a-half months, my Dad was in ICU recovering from a variety of injuries sustained. He turned into the six million dollar man as everything except for his left hand and arm had to be bolted together, fused together, rebuilt, or replaced. By God’s mercy and grace, my Dad’s face was relatively untouched. He only had some jaw damage. He did have to wear one of those metal halos while his neck fusion surgery was done and he healed from that. The tracheotomy only reminded me of my Dad’s failed attempts to stop smoking. “His lungs would have been stronger had he quit all those years ago” kept going through my head. Irrational thoughts and the “what ifs” drove me crazy.
There was a sense of wanting to do something for him, but feeling utterly helpless. I helped drain his tubes, got a nurse to come in when he needed tending to, read to him, brought in a CD player and played his favorite music, prayed over him, and tried to care for him in a way that you’re never taught to.
“All the manic days, faces that pull…All the X-rays not under your control…And the compromise you make for someone”
My family’s lives were indeed manic for the seven months or so that it took him to regain the strength, mobility, speech, and other skills that were stripped from him thanks to a drunk driver. You shouldn’t have to see a parent have to learn to walk again, eat again, or even learn to speak again. But, through each of those manic days, there was a hidden blessing in it all. As hard as that was to realize, it brought me closer to my Dad, as well as my husband. We each were relying on each other in ways we never thought we would, and by working as a team, we were able to celebrate each small victory.
“All the books you never read…just started…all the meals you rushed…and never tasted”
Though this process, you can’t help but see life differently. I learned to appreciate the simplicity of peace and the joy of taking a small step - literally. I realized that as horrible of a situation you’ve been placed in, you’re never given anything that you can’t handle. There was a purpose to what transpired, and as hard as it still is to revisit this time five years ago, I can see now that this was a milestone in making me who I am now. I think of all the things my Dad had to relearn: walking, eating, talking. He would joke about how he would love to enjoy the taste of a Burger King Whopper. Simple things that mean so much.
“All the information…all the big ideas…all the radio waves…electronic seas…how to navigate…how to simply be…the truth knows when to wait…explained simplicity…In whom shall I trust…How might I be still…Teach me to surrender, not my will, thy will.”
That purpose was to teach me a valuable lesson in that you can’t control or plan what happens. You can prepare as best as you can, but there are forces out there greater than yourself that can, and often will, impact your life at some point. I had to fall down at the feet of my Creator and plead for mercy. I knew that my creator, my God, would be the only one who could bring me peace that passes understanding – that peace that could bring sense to such a senseless act. I also had to learn the powerful act of forgiveness. The drunk driver lost her life because of the stupid decision she made to get behind the wheel. If I’m to surrender to “thy will,” then I needed to forgive her for the pain and suffering that decision caused my family.
I am very fortunate. My Dad is still with me and is enjoying his time as a Grandpa. I am truly blessed. I know that only by my Creator’s doing that we can still enjoy each other’s company. That’s why I will be forever “Falling At Your Feet.”- Kite
Kite
@U2, July 05, 2008
Marylinn Maione
I'm the second oldest of 18 first cousins, just on my mother's side. My grandparents lived in our house, so on the weekends, many (if not all) of the aunts and uncles and cousins would show up at our house to visit. Everyone would march upstairs to be plied with cookies, espresso and (tiny) shots of vermouth, and a half hour later, high on sugar, caffeine and alcohol, the kids would come down and let loose in our backyard and in the alley behind our house. Mostly, I remember a large horde of very small people running around, screaming and touching all my stuff. Or maybe it was the parents screaming. Anyway, I must not have minded because I always looked forward to these visits.
When we were younger, it was equal opportunity chaos, every kid for him/herself. The alliances were age-related, as is normally the case when you get a bunch of kids together. My younger brother and my cousin Teresa were especially close at this stage. When our families were together, they were never apart. The dynamics of the group changed as we got older; the girls got girlier, and the boys stayed, well, boys. As young teens, Teresa and I became close very quickly. Even though she was 3 and ½ years younger, we both loved music, which started early in our lives. Our family listened to opera (her father had trained to be a singer before coming to America) and she had old cassettes of episodes of The Monkees, taped straight from the television, that we couldn't get enough of. We were forever changed when we saw our future in all its Technicolor glory—that was the day when cable came to town. And having cable meant one thing: MTV. (For those of you who weren't born yet, in the early '80s MTV played exclusively music videos, 24 hours a day, with very little commercial interruption.)
We were transformed, transfixed. The clothes! The hair! The bands! It was a language we both spoke and understood, and because local radio only played "Oldies," we discovered many of the bands we would love for the rest of our lives. Our love of MTV fueled our love of live music. We saw many concerts together, our first being a group of four short, hairy Irish guys who called themselves U2. I think I was 17, and she was 14. At one point during the show, a very young, very fit Bono climbed a stack of speakers on our side of the stage to sing towards our section of seats. We turned to each other and simultaneously screamed, "Oh my god, he looked at me!"
Again, we were transfixed, and it was the beginning of a lifelong obsession with the band and their music for both of us. We saw every subsequent tour together. In 2001, I was nine months pregnant and suffering terribly with a pinched sciatic nerve, so I couldn't comfortably walk, stand or sit. We had tickets to our local Elevation show, and Teri was the only person who didn't say I should skip it. She drove me there, held my hand while we walked through the parking lot, and made sure I sat at the end of our row so I could move around as necessary to relieve the pain. That was my son's first concert, and I know he enjoyed it because he starting kicking me as soon as the music started and never let up until the very end.
In 2003, we made our first foray into the world of U2 fandom when we went to the opening ceremonies of the U2 exhibit at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. We both had husbands and small children at this point in our lives, and neither one of us had even had so much as a girls' night out without them. We were stoked. Teri's husband had always given us a hard time about our obsession, but this was proof that we weren't the only U2 freaks out there. For two days and nights we drank, danced, and sang our hearts out to the songs we had loved for so many years, with people from all over the world who didn't think it was odd or crazy. We left Sunday morning and rolled into town, straight to a baby shower for the youngest of the 18 cousins. Teri's sister answered the door, took one look at us and asked, "What the hell happened to you?" Our voices were shot, but even if we could have spoken, what could we possibly have said?
Something is about to give/I can feel it coming/I think I know what it is
In 2005, we were making plans to see U2 on their just-announced Vertigo tour. We were hoping to travel to some shows in cities close by, but we had to scratch most of our plans when Teresa was diagnosed with breast cancer in early summer, at the tender age of 37. This was after a long, hard year for her, struggling with other health issues and adjusting to her 9 year-old son's newly discovered Type 1 Diabetes. Her diagnosis came just as the tectonic plates beneath my own little world were shifting, causing irreparable damage to the landscape of my family life. Suddenly (but not surprisingly), I was a single mom with two kids to care for, alone. The storm had been brewing on the surface for a long time, so when it finally hit, I thought I’d be ready. I was wrong.
I'm not afraid to die/I'm not afraid to live/And when I'm flat on my back/ I hope to feel like I did
'Cause hardness, it sets in/You need some protection/ The thinner the skin
I wanted to be strong for my cousin because I felt like whatever I was going through was inconsequential to what she was dealing with. My pain was self-imposed; hers was something you wouldn't wish for your worst enemy. We cried together on the phone and hoped that others were luckier than we were. We wondered what karmic sins from our former lives we were paying back. I plucked clumps of hair from the back of her shirt, and we both laughed the first time I saw her in a skull cap and called her The Edge. She ended up being the one who saved my life, by being the person she always was; good-natured, funny, and unfailingly optimistic. We had no reason to believe she wouldn't beat the disease. She discovered it fairly early (six or eight weeks after a mammogram had come back clear), and it was responding well to the chemotherapy. Once the lumps and lymph nodes were removed, she did some radiation, and continued taking standard chemotherapy treatments every three weeks. She started working part-time and avoided crowds to stay healthy. Plus, the fact that she was young would work in her favor.
Who's to say where the wind will take you/Who's to say what it is will break you
I don't know which way the wind will blow
We had tickets to our local Vertigo show, but Teri wasn't sure she'd be up to it. Her chemo was on Thursdays, and the show was on the Saturday right after a treatment. Those were horrible weekends for her, filled with debilitating nausea and bone-crushing pain. She wanted to give away her ticket (the concert was sold out, so everyone wanted it), but I talked her into waiting until the day of the show to decide. Even though we wouldn't be together -- she had seats while I took our GA tickets -- I wanted her to be there because I knew she would feel better once it started. I had secured rides in both directions for her, and she was sitting with another family member, so she wouldn't be alone and could leave at any time if she couldn't handle it. I was out in line in the driving rain all day with no cell phone, so I had no idea if she'd make it or not. Just before they opened the gates, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find Teri standing there, like it was the most normal thing in the world. I hugged her tight ("Watch my hair!" she whispered, when I knocked her wig askew) and said, "I am so glad you're here!" "Me too," she replied.
She had a wonderful time, but the week after the concert, she got pneumonia and stayed in the hospital for two weeks. I felt responsible for her illness, for making her come to a drafty arena on a miserable, freezing, damp day, and sit around for hours with 25,000 germ-infested organisms. It was the first of many setbacks, but we didn't know it then. We had been to our first U2 concert together; I never imagined this would be our last.
In summer I can taste the salt in the sea/There's a kite blowing out of control on a breeze
I wonder what's gonna happen to you/You wonder what has happened to me
Things got progressively worse. It turns out that because she was so young, the cancer was particularly aggressive. There was a tiny spot on her liver, perhaps something that was missed during the surgery. A spot showed up on a lung x-ray, but that could have been from another bout of pneumonia. She had bad reactions to drugs: more fluid in her lungs; a spot on her brain, at the base of her spine; more surgery; more chemo. The only salt we tasted was in our tears as we watched her struggle again and again.
The family took another hit when, about halfway through this ordeal, my mother was diagnosed with inoperable cancer of the esophagus. She had already survived breast cancer twice, and after her initial shock and anger over her recent diagnosis, she bravely decided she had too much to live for and would fight it. But now, I could no longer take my kids to my mom's house so I could go visit my cousin, because she was starting treatments of her own and we couldn't risk infecting her. I wanted so badly to help, but it wasn't logistically possible as much as I would have liked.
I'm a man, I'm not a child/A man who sees the shadow behind your eyes
Children often feel helpless because they have no control over their circumstances. Parents make all the decisions, and compliance isn't a choice. We were all adults now, but we felt as helpless as children as we watched our cousin's body fail and we could do nothing to stop it. After Teri was diagnosed with a second tumor in her brain, I went to the hospital to see her, and had no choice but to take my children along. She didn't know I knew about the tumor, until she looked me in the eye. Up to that point, she had been tireless in her fight against the ravages of her disease. She never complained, she never gave up, and losing the battle was not an option. But in that fleeting moment, I saw a fear in her eyes that wasn't there before. We couldn't talk about it in front of the kids, but we didn't need to. We understood.
I want you to know/ That you don't need me anymore
I want you to know/You don't need anyone, anything at all
Who's to know when the time has come around
Don't wanna see you cry/I know this is not goodbye
Teri spent more time in hospitals than out. The family made desperate moves to find new ways to help her. There was a clinic in Texas that would take her after she finished her last round of chemo. Her brother-in-law was a doctor, who called friends of friends who may or may not have helped the biggest band in the world get back on tour just months before. We called every health food store and organic grocery for anything we thought would help -- vitamins, herbs, frozen shark cartilage -- but there was no miracle drug we could find to save her. She went along with all of it, not wanting to leave her two young sons without their mother. All along, she kept up her sense of humor, and she only got upset if anyone cried around her. My aunt would sit, tears silently streaming down her face, and Teresa, facing the other direction with her eyes closed, would say, "Mummy, stop crying." Even in her own pain, she didn't want to cause any pain for us.
On July 4, 2007, I sat in a darkened hospital room with Teri's immediate family. She had stopped eating days before and was no longer responsive. The cousins, aunts and uncles came and went, everyone in disbelief that it had come to this. This was normally a day of celebration for our family, one of the few holidays when all of the 18 cousins and aunts and uncles would gather with their kids and spouses at my parents' house to spend time and catch up and marvel at how much everyone had grown since the year before. Instead, we cried and prayed and held her hands, and waited. I couldn't stay any longer. My kids hadn't seen me for days, and I just couldn't stand the thought of being in the room when...
I hugged her, and cupping her face in my hands, I whispered in her ear, "Go. We'll take care of the boys, I promise you. You need to go now. It's time. You know I love you."
The next day, I was sitting at my desk at work, completely distracted. At one point, I happened to look out the big windows just as the sky opened up and the rain poured down. I called Teri's husband at that moment, and he must have recognized my number because all he said when he picked up was, "She's gone."
"When?" I asked.
"Just now."
In summer I can taste the salt in the sea/There's a kite blowing out of control on a breeze
I wonder what's gonna happen to you/You wonder what has happened to me
As children, our families launch us with a good running start. Once we are aloft, we are tethered to this earth by precarious ties that can break at any time. Sometimes though, the wind picks up and unravels the string, and we are the ones left standing on the beach, empty spool in hand, watching as our love floats away from us, becoming smaller and smaller with each passing moment. Our memories become the invisible threads that keep us together. The songs that once gave us such joy are now the songs I turn to in my grief. My love for Teri is forever intertwined with those songs, and I can never hear them again without thinking of her. Although I can't see her, I know my cousin is where she's always been, hovering right there above me.- Running to Stand Still
Running to Stand Still
@U2, September 29, 2008
Jaime Rodriguez
No one ever said it was going to be like this. Certainly you don't expect maturing and growing up to be an easy process; but unexpectedly so, growing up internally from a crazed teenager who liked "the good life" to a responsible and respectable young adult has been a bumpy run, in which it turns out the key is to stop running.
"Running to Stand Still" has always had some of Bono's best written work; the song speaks of drug use and the impact it has on a person's emotional state. My personal connection to this song is totally different, yet equally deep.
The song, like my life today, is a journey of self-discovery of what truly is important and real in life.
A lot of fast change has happened and still is happening at this point in my life. It seems like ever so slowly, and in spite of myself, I am becoming an adult. (I am 23 years old finishing up my college degree.)
Transitioning from drinking and having fun at South Beach parties to working at a world-class communications company has me running in a new direction. Both lifestyles have aspects that are difficult to navigate, and each provide its own form of gratification.
Although some of you might scoff at the self-perception because I am only 23, I have already lived a lot. Growing up in Colombia, I have traveled the world, started drinking at 14, partying in clubs at 15, and girls were never a problem for me. Life has been extremely easy -- my family's money was always there to cushion my falls. I had nothing to complain or rage about. Something was always missing though, some sense of fulfillment or gratification. I couldn't point the finger at directly what it was, but something was missing.
Although I always had everything, I had nothing.
What on the outside seemed like a privileged life, in the inside was actually filled with chaos: chaos of ego, immature, and lack of real fulfillment. Something had to eventually give.
Finally, it did. During the early part of 2008, it seemed like everything came apart. My relationship with my now ex-girlfriend, my relationship with my family, even struggling in school. The situation reached a breaking point; it was time to wake up from the point where I was.
And so she woke up, woke up from where she was, lying still
I had to do something about my life or I was to end up in chaos.
Said we got to do something about where were going
As bad as this period was, it was also an incredible opportunity: An obstacle that if used properly, could be a stepping stone. It was once said, "Greatness is not how much we achieve, but how much we overcome."
The first thing that this situation taught me was that I had "garbage" that I had to face. There were fundamental errors of judgment that were manifested in different ways. I needed to understand the fact that ultimately, if one lives an ethical and mature life of rectitude and truth, light and fulfillment will always be shining on us.
Listening to the song, it is difficult to ignore the fact that I was living a life based on nothing but girls, parties, and excess. I was running through the streets "with my eyes painted red," and everyone could see this but myself.
She runs through the streets
With her eyes painted red
Under black belly
Of cloud in the rain
The interesting thing about this process is finding out that the journey of self-discovery and change is not an easy one. Indeed, standing still is not easy at all. It's not easy because you have to face your "garbage" head on. If I was to use this opportunity to do a REAL change from the inside out, then I could not afford to overlook the core issues I had to deal with. It was not supposed to be easy, and so far it's not. If it was easy, then I would not have been heading in the right direction. Real change takes effort.
But how was I to convert this knowledge into lasting fulfillment? The key lies in the CHOICES we make, when life hands out the opportunity to act a certain way. A lot of times (my case included), people seek to change or "take the next step" when their life has been shattered; when we are living as an effect and wonder about our life's purpose. When we choose, we step out of the program we are born into, and start to become the cause.
It's a message that always is underlined in U2's songs whether directly or indirectly. The notion of growing as a person from the inside out.
The person in the song is living in deep chaos. Drugs and all kinds of excess are going in her life, but it is her who is making these choices at the end. She is being reactive as opposed to proactive.
I see seven towers
But I only see one way out
Will you BLAME your circumstances or will you CAUSE your circumstances to change? Without a doubt, I could have sat down, talked about my "bad luck," pointed the finger, and never really looked at myself in the mirror just like the female person in this song.
Something similar or worse could happen in the future, unless I took control and became the CAUSE of what will happen in. If I didn't cut to the core, then chaos would eventually reappear, even if I got away with it this time. It is a realization that this is the "rage" that the song talks about.
Chaos happens when we are so caught up in reacting to our lives, that we lose track of what is real. Until you heal the root, the cause of your challenge will always be there. Listening to "Running to Stand Still" during this difficult period helped me understand that our lives no matter how chaotic they may appear have order hiding within them. In this case, I had the power to change this cycle. Or, I could stick to my story if I wanted to. The important thing is realizing that it would have been me either way that is creating it.
Unfortunately, the song ends and we do not know if the female comes to this process of stopping the chaos in her life. The ending is open, yet likely that it's headed towards a bad path with no end in sight. It's a shame too because there is light at the end of the tunnel. This song showed me that light is at the end of the tunnel.- Hawkmoon 269
Hawkmoon 269
@U2, October 18, 2008
John Tuohy
"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards"
—Kierkegaard
They say that hindsight is 20/20. Well, whoever they are, I think they're right. Music can often remind us of this little theory. One day a song can just be a cool tune that rocks. And then on another day the same song can actually make the past, the present, or even the future so much more in focus than it ever was before. This is one of the great things about music, isn't it? Or maybe it's the difficult part about it, as well. Or at least it seems to be at times, anyway.
Almost 10 years after hearing a song for the first time, it hit me in a way that it never did before. And this is the great thing about U2's music. There are other U2 songs that have done this to me before, but this time it was different because it actually brought some closure and healing to me. I'm talking about the fourth track on Rattle and Hum. This song helped me to look back and see things a bit more in focus. And with this newfound clarity, I was able to make a little more sense about what lay ahead of me. And also how God, family, and even love played such huge roles during this time. Nothing too serious...ya know? ;-)
I'll admit, not a huge percentage of U2 fans love this song. And I'd bet a lot of newer fans have never even heard it. I'm of course talking about "Hawkmoon 269," but most of you probably knew that by now. Anyone remember the first time hearing this song? I just remember thinking that it was the coolest sounding song I'd ever heard. And like just about everyone else, I had absolutely no clue what the song was even about. Didn't care either, it was just cool! Who knew Bono could sing that low? And even sound good at it, too. Hearing those first few lines crackle out of his throat made me want a scotch and cigarette...and I don't even smoke....
Like a desert needs rain
Like a town needs a name
I need your love
Like a drifter needs a room
Hawkmoon
I need your love
Then there's the Edge. You could say that he's got his feedback and distortion in full effect. Now enter Adam, then Larry, who evidently is drumming for the Almighty himself.
So these were my first impressions of this obscure little track back in 1988, and these impressions still hold true today. I've found that this song has recently hit me in a way that I never would have expected. So let me go back a bit and share with you why I, Hawkmoon2e, has chosen the somewhat obscure "Hawkmoon 269" for my Like a Song Essay.
I would say that my younger years were pretty normal. You know, Little League, Pop Warner football, Happy Days, and blowing things up with firecrackers. I'm the youngest of five. My parents are both children of Irish descendants, so naturally, they were Irish Catholic. I'm pretty sure they're still Irish these days, but for sure not Catholic, especially after their divorce. In fact, divorce was so good, they did it twice! The first divorce happened when I was only seven years old. Right after their first divorce, I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. I just remember wanting to be a normal kid in a normal family again, one that still did stuff together, especially at the holidays. And speaking of holidays...the candy! I thought the divorce was hard. It wasn't half as hard as not being able to eat candy anymore! But that's enough of this poor-me sob story. Eventually, I got over it. Well, sort of. I mean, we can still call ourselves a family, right? There are certainly families out there that have gone through worse. So my family was a little bit broken; big deal. We can still love each other, right? That is, if I can figure out what exactly love is. I mean, didn't my parents say they loved each other?…
Like a rhythm unbroken
Like drums in the night
Like sweet soul music
Like sunlight
I need your love
...Or did I just need it back?
After my parents remarried each other some five or six years later, all was normal in the Tuohy household again. Normal? But once again, a few years later, the $h!t really hit the fan, so to speak, anyway. This time though, I was an adult that could handle it all for sure. I wasn't going to worry too much about having a so-called normal family anymore. Or even about what was going to happen on holidays. I was going to take care of number one. Me. And that's it! But I found myself at the age of 22, completely pissed off at the world, and more specifically, my family and God. And not necessarily in that order, either.
I won't go into the gory details about this second divorce, but let's just say that we all found out some pretty awful things about my dad, and that's putting it lightly. So growing up in a church-going, God-fearing family suddenly meant absolutely nothing to me. I became very cynical of God and his church. And love? What the hell did that even mean anymore?...
Like coming home
and you don't know where you've been
Like black coffee
Like nicotine
I need your love
...Or did I?
Anger is something that we've all experienced in life, one way or another. Anger is certainly not a bad thing, but how we deal with it certainly can be. That's where it got really cloudy for me, because I was trying to justify my anger, but in doing that I was also trying to justify my actions as well. Alcohol became one of my best friends, too. Well, I thought so anyway. "Jack" and "Jim" were always there, but it never ended well with those two....
When the night has no end
And the day yet to begin
As the room spins around
I need your love
...Or just another drink.
From 1990 to 1996, I was on a real collision course with life. Or more likely, with death. I just didn't care anymore. I totaled two trucks that I owned. One of the accidents involved an angry me, a four-wheel-drive Chevy, a 100-foot steep embankment, and lots of alcohol. After I woke up the next morning in a ditch, my first thought was, "Oh well, I guess I need a new truck." I really didn't care. Or more likely, I was trying to show the world that I didn't care. So instead of continuing down the road of total destruction, I at least made a few changes. It wasn't a lot, but it was a start. I really didn't want my parents earlier threat in life to come true. You know the one when they say "You could be dead in a ditch somewhere!" And that threat always came when you were just a few minutes late coming home. Little did my parents know that I was already half way there...I just wasn't dead in the ditch yet. So I stopped with the partying/driving/crashing.
I did have a good job, some fun toys, and a great place to live. But something was still missing. Sure my Dad was not a part of my life anymore, and that created an emptiness But there was still a hole that not even the best Dad in the world could fill....
Lookin' for to fill that God shaped hole
Sorry, that's for another song in another essay. I just felt that something else really needed to change in my life. Almost like I was running out of time, or something. I even felt a little desperate....
Like a Phoenix rising
needs a holy tree
Like the sweet revenge
of a bitter enemy
I need your love
I need your love
Like the heat needs the sun
Like honey on her tongue
Like the muzzle of a gun
Like oxygen
I need your love
Oh man, how I nee