July in Five Songs, Grief in a Few Paragraphs
Reflecting on loss and change through the only ways I know how: writing and music
Welcome to This Month in 5 Songs. If you’d like some context on this little monthly off-shoot, you can find it in June’s installment.
This month’s songs come with some extra writing because, to me, July is inextricably tied to Sencha (bka The Sench), my best dog friend who passed away at the end of July one year ago. July is also the month we first rescued him back in 2016 as a sweet senior—so having those 6 precious years with him felt simultaneously unfairly short as well as a gift we didn’t know we’d be so lucky to have. Around the same time last year, I found out the company I was working for would be closing and that we’d all be losing our jobs, crumbling one of the only other pillars I’d considered somewhat stable during the pandemic.
I’m still negotiating the balance between being honest about my experiences here while keeping intimate details of my life from the oppressive eyes of the internet. My instinct is to protect myself from being either the comparer or the comparee of things—especially things as deeply personal as loss and grief.
In the simplified version, one of the hardest seasons of my life led me here, to this art making, to this place of reflecting and processing—closed doors not of my own choosing led to a few new doors I hadn’t yet had the perspective or freedom to open. But while that storyline of human triumph, phoenix rising from the ashes, high road taken, healthy coping, opportunities seized in the face of difficulty, is what I and those who’ve supported me probably hope to see out of all of this, I don’t want to propograte a lie that one simply just “gets over it” with an arbitrarily set amount of “reasonable time.” To me, it seems odd that a sign of victory is no longer thinking about your losses, not being emotionally moved by them anymore, or that loss is something you need to leave completely behind before you can live on.
Frankly, I was surprised at how easily I could smile, laugh, and feel some level of joy the day after a crippling loss, as well as how often I still feel the immense pain and emptiness months out as if the wounds were suddenly ripped open anew. Throughout the year, signals of memories would inevitably move me, outpourings of emotion I let next to nobody see because I couldn’t even have predicted when those waves would rise.
I was also deeply moved by the smallest things—some with joy, some with sorrow, many with equal parts of both: Dandelions in the park grass. A dahlia garden. A bumblebee that accidentally flew into my living room through an open window and, in a panic, kept climbing the blinds and falling repeatedly until it found a corner to safely curl up in; fearing a sting and not knowing how to help, I kept watch over it until A. came home and helped it back out the window—tears of relief came pouring out after its safe departure. The first shooting star I had ever seen. Looking out at the Pacific, no matter from what vantage point. Watching a golden retriever and its owner run together and stop together at the crosswalks of a bustling city. A small bird that I. and I saw on a walk back from lunch that was belly down flapping on the sidewalk, so we gently moved it to a planter and out of the way of the driveway and foot traffic; only later to find that it had passed away in the spot where we had placed it. A recurring dream that leaves me with such emptiness that I feel as if I had been physically scooped out by a melon baller. The complete randomness of life that I admit I assign too much narrative significance to when no such narrative likely exists.
As I’ve dreaded and yet finally arrived at this month, I know that this past year was a culmination of reflections, choices, intentions, emotions, and trying to stay in tune with myself that has led me to this point, even if it feels like I had limped most of the way here. But with nothing to hide, I fully admit to still feeling the aftereffects of those changes.
Loss and grief hit me on both a micro and macro level constantly. I’ve become hypersensitive to how often things end or change in people’s lives: job environments (even at the same job), a favorite store or restaurant closing, the scenery and buildings on daily paths, routines, new family members born while others pass, changes in health (good or bad), everything under the sun. And yet, somehow, we’re expected to remain ultimately stable in the face of it all. When we hear people are “okay” or “fine” after a loss, it’s almost like we’re given permission to not need to check in again, and that chapter has closed and we can all move on.
But I truly believe the real strength in all of this isn’t in being okay and bouncing back in the shortest amount of time. Nor should we feel sheepish, like the losses we experience aren’t “big” enough to warrant the depth of what we feel or the need for support even after the “reasonable time” window has closed. I know in my heart that we’ve all had things like this happen to us, in different shades with varying degrees of intensity, heaviness, and frequency. And as I continue to pick up, examine, and make sense of the artifacts left from change, I find the most solace in knowing that these deep, truthful feelings are what connect me to others, and that connection is what helps me stumble ever forward.
01. ♫ Furr by Blitzen Trapper
A folksy ballad about a man turning into a dog and back into a human. Listening to this reminds me of how much Sencha had become a part of myself that I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
02. ♫ Walk with Me by GoldFord
When I first heard this song a few months ago, I was immediately moved to tears. I’m a big sucker for this gospel-style a capella vocal. I found the lyrics so hopeful and comforting at a time I really wanted to hear these words. The line “Walk with me” also had dual meanings for me: one being the comfort in sharing this pain with others and feeling their love and support, the other more literal, as I had imagined the comfort and companionship of a dog walking next to you for the duration of its life.
03. ♫ Daydream by Gunter Kallmann Choir
It’s probably sacriligious to say that I first heard of this song from its sample in Lupe Fiasco’s Daydreamin’ (or at least it may point to my age?). But there’s something slightly haunting about the tune of this song. The lyrics describe a really simple moment, but the melody feels like it’s hinting at something stranger and more reflective. I find myself in this space a lot lately.
04. ♫ Lentil by Sia
I had heard many, many years ago that this song was written about Sia’s dog, and I never forgot that little tidbit. The song kept creeping into my rotation throughout my life: first when I listened to it in high school, then in college when a friend of mine and I sang this song together when they taught me how to record music on GarageBand, and now. The pain and separation feels so palpable here, especially from 3:15 onward with the line “I’m wishing with all of my might” coming in right as they key changes, and everything swells until the end.
05. (A song I didn’t catch the name of and couldn’t find again)
Maybe this is cheating, but there was a song in the same vein of a few of these on here where I felt an immediate emotional connection. It came on randomly one day as part of Spotify’s emotionless algorithim—a mostly a capella ballad about learning what you can’t bring with you from this life into death. I cried so hard upon listening to it that I forgot to save it or go back to it, and even after punching into Google all sorts of lyrics that I thought I had heard and finding nothing, I think I’ll have to just settle for the memory of a song that got away but was what I needed to hear in that very moment.