A Year of Firsts

After Irish singer/songwriter Glen Hansard passed away last week, my social media algorithms were flooded with videos about him, all manner of people performing tribute versions of his Oscar winning song, “Falling Slowly,” and shots of a giant memorial busking session taking place in Dublin. 

I remember absolutely loving his film, Once, for it’s indie aesthetic and missed connections love story, but mostly for the gorgeous songs.

Over the course of the week, it seemed as if there was not a single corner of the world untouched by his music. In the middle of an absolutely AMAZING concert I saw in Boston (thank you for the invite, friend!) Tori Amos covered the song, while the audience held hands above heads, swaying, and singing along. I particularly loved her little sung intro, which was a poem/prayer of remembrance for lost loved ones.

It was one of the most memorable moments of the concert, and while we were all there for her, she reminded us of the other feelings and memories that connect us as well.

All of these tributes made me think about Hansard and what the experience of living his life must have been like after winning that Oscar for that song that everyone loved that year (2007). 

Glen Hansard never stopped working and singing. He put out several albums, appeared in other films and TV shows, performed with Eddie Vedder on tour, and wrote a song on the Hunger Games soundtrack. 

He had a great career, and he had fans, and I’m sure he knew that, but I wonder if after the rush of winning an Oscar and gaining international fame, the rest of it felt less exciting? I wonder if he ever imagined his songs touched all of the people who joined these impromptu memorials to pay tribute to his musical legacy. 

And it made me think about this in a larger context. You know, for those of us who haven’t won Oscars (yet).

There are an infinite number of people we each touch in our lifetimes. Sometimes we surely know how we factor into others lives. And sometimes we have no idea. The people we’ve touched are not constantly gushing about the great things we did, or how we made them feel. We might not even remember some of them. But even if we’re not being showered with their praise, it exists somewhere, in a journal entry, or a memory, or a keepsake.

The notion that the ones we love will always live in our memories is a common one. But what if, besides those memories, we also carry the love of the people who will remember us when we’re gone. I don’t think we allow ourselves to think about this much. Maybe because we don’t believe it, or because the idea of it is a bit overwhelming. 

But isn’t it nice to think about, just for a moment, that there is a room, full of people (some whose faces we recognize, and some we don’t), somewhere in the future, saying our name, singing our songs or telling our stories, honoring all that we were in the world and all that we meant to them? Isn’t it nice to think of all the love and happiness we generate over the course of a lifetime? Isn’t it nice to think about that love as a source of energy that we can imagine inside of us, fueling us in the moments when we truly need it?

Maybe it’s impossible to go to your own funeral, but I love the idea that while we are alive, and able to enjoy it, there might be a way to access all of that love. And that we build it a bridge to it through how we live in the world. Sort of like the opposite of Jacob Marley’s big chain of bad deeds. Maybe instead of a chain weighing you down it could be a bouquet of balloons, and those balloons are full of laughs and smiles and the breath of a million conversations that brightened someone’s day or changed the course of their life.

So, here’s a balloon for your bouquet today – I hope it’s just what you needed.