Over the weekend, I had a long drive, and I spent some of that time listening to music I haven’t heard in many years. I’m always amazed by what happens once a song starts. Even if it’s been more than a decade, if that song was part of our lives, the lyrics come rushing back, and we can sing every word.
As someone who used to sing a lot of choral music in different languages, this amazes me every time. Five minutes before a piece begins, I can barely remember anything about it. And then it starts — and suddenly I can sing it word by word, even in languages I don’t actually know. The memory lives somewhere deeper than conscious recall.
Music has a unique way of creating this experience. It bypasses effort. It unlocks something stored in the body.
And it makes me wonder about other things, too.
If we were willing to pause and stay present with our bodies and our senses, what else might we remember? What else might suddenly become present again?
Would we feel connected to people we’ve loved — some who died many years ago, and others we still know and see today? Would we remember what it was like to hear someone say our name in just that particular way? Would the small traits and quirks of people we love come rushing back — things we couldn’t have summoned on purpose?
Or perhaps the remembering would be quieter. A sensation might bring us back to a moment we treasured. Experiencing solitude. Playing as a child. Becoming ourselves without realizing that’s what we were doing.
Music reminds me that so much remains. It’s just waiting for the right kind of attention.
What else might we unlock if we were willing to be present?
—Renee Roederer
Smuggling Grace 