I just love love songs.
That aching, yearning feeling. The longing. The sense that life just wouldn’t be the same without this person in it.
It strikes a chord.
And apparently, I’m not alone.
For decades, we’ve been singing along to songs about how we can’t possibly go on without somebody.
“I can’t smile without you.”
What the hell? That’s a lot to lay onto somebody.
Thanks, Barry.
Then there’s:
“I can’t live if living is without you.”
Oh my God. What a load to carry.
Thank you, Badfinger and Harry.
And I sing right along. With feeling.
Some of these songs have meant a great deal to me. They’ve given words and music to things I’ve felt deeply.
But recently I’ve been hearing something different in them, too.
Somewhere in all that yearning, the person I love has been handed a job: keeping me happy, keeping me whole, maybe even keeping me going.
I know a little something about handing somebody that job.
Years ago, I went so far as to make it part of a marriage proposal.
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Back in the “Dark Ages” (literally), when I was deep in alcohol and drugs, I was in a relationship with a woman I would eventually marry.
The way I asked her to marry me is difficult to look back on.
I had just come off a huge bender. I was disheveled, hungover, strung out.
And I asked her something along the lines of:
“I don’t know if I can go on living unless you marry me. Will you?”
There was that love song again. Freaking Harry!
Only this time, I was the one singing it.
And another person had to live with the weight of those words.
I can hear the pressure in that question now. I was making my ability to go on sound dependent on her answer.
Whatever I was feeling, it was my burden to hold.
Asking her to marry me placed something at her feet that no marriage proposal should carry.
I can only tell you what I brought into that situation.
I was struggling, and I was looking to another person to make life feel possible.
Looking back, I can feel compassion for the man I was and still recognize the burden I placed on someone I loved.
That’s a difficult thing to see in yourself.
But it helps me understand why this question of dependence matters so much to me.
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How easy it can be to look outside ourselves for happiness, joy, a sense of well-being.
At least, it has been for me.
Somewhere along the way, I can start handing over responsibility for things I need to participate in cultivating myself.
And then, without quite noticing, I’m waiting for someone else to make me feel okay.
My dear friend and teacher, Arun, has encouraged me to watch for those codependent tendencies.
Of course I watch for them.
I cultivate them like a farmer cultivates corn!
Sometimes my corn is as high as an elephant’s eye.
Recognizing a familiar pattern doesn’t mean I’ve stopped planting it.
I’m reminded of the smoker who says, “Quitting is easy. I do it all the time.”
Arun’s invitation was to try cultivating something else.
Interdependence.
And I thought: What is this thing called interdependence?
I could understand that people need each other. We lean on each other. We give and receive support.
I certainly wasn’t looking for a life where nobody needed anybody.
But how could I take responsibility for my own well-being and still allow myself to lean?
How could I bring something that was wholly mine into a relationship while making room for what another person brings?
I started exploring that.
And somewhere along the way, sitting behind my drums, I began to feel what it might mean.
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I’ve mentioned that I’ve been getting back into practicing the drums. Really studying.
Spending time with the things my body knows—and the things it apparently has never heard of.
One of the skills you develop as a drummer is independence.
Your right hand does one thing. Your left hand does something different. Your feet have their own jobs.
And somehow, they all have to work together.
Try it sometime. It’s a little more challenging than patting your head and rubbing your belly while chewing gum.
Back when I was playing and studying years ago, I never played double bass.
I thought it was cheating.
So I worked hard at developing a single-foot technique, and I got pretty good at it.
This time around, I wanted to explore something different. Give my feet an opportunity to learn a few new tricks.
Apparently, they weren’t consulted about this decision.
Learning to play double bass has felt like stumbling. Like being a child learning to crawl and walk.
Talk about two left feet!
I say “has felt” as though I’m past that part.
I’m still stumbling.
But the other night, something clicked.
My right hand was holding a steady rhythm, and my right and left feet were doing different things beneath it.
Three different parts. Working together.
And it sounded really neat.
For a little while, I could feel what each part was contributing.
I could listen to my hand, then notice one foot, then the other, without everything immediately falling apart.
My right hand could hold its rhythm on its own.
When a foot joined in, it added something. Then the other foot brought another layer.
The rhythm became fuller.
That was when Arun’s invitation began to make sense in my body.
Each part had something of its own to contribute. Each also had to find its place with the others.
If one foot lost its way, the steady hand gave it something to come back to.
And some of what my feet were playing only really made sense when I could hear it against that steady pulse.
There was room to be distinct. There was also something to lean on.
I started thinking about what each of us brings into a relationship.
Our own tone. Our own timing.
Something we’ve practiced for years, perhaps, alongside something we’re still stumbling through.
And the possibility of listening closely enough to make music together.
I’m hoping to get both arms and both legs fully involved eventually.
For now, three parts finding their way together gave me plenty to think about.
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Since then, I’ve been listening a little differently.
To my partner. To my clients. To my friends.
What’s the tone? What’s the rhythm? What are they bringing into this moment?
And what am I bringing?
When I’m practicing the drums, there are moments when I settle enough to hear how the parts fit together.
My body softens a little. I can keep playing while noticing what’s happening.
Then I try to take some of that listening into the rest of my life.
Sometimes that looks like holding steady while someone I love finds their footing.
Sometimes it looks like washing the dishes while my partner handles another part of our daily rhythm.
And sometimes I’m the one who needs an anchor.
I’m learning to make room for that, too.
We all depend on things outside ourselves.
We need food, shelter, connection, care. We need people who can help us through things we struggle to carry alone.
There are days when one of us has very little to give, and the other carries more of the rhythm.
I want to be able to receive that care.
I also want to notice when I’ve begun making another person responsible for every note.
That’s where I can get curious.
Am I listening to what they’re bringing, or am I trying to get them to play my part?
Have I made room for their timing?
Can I ask for what I need and stay open to hearing what they need, too?
These are questions I’m practicing. Sometimes clumsily.
But I’m beginning to appreciate how much room there is in a relationship for different contributions.
One person’s steadiness. Another’s energy. A pause where somebody needs a breath.
We don’t have to play the same thing at the same time to belong in the same song.
And when I can hear that—when I can feel my own rhythm and still listen to yours—there’s a little more room to move.
To respond.
To enjoy what we’re making together.
I still love those love songs.
I’ll probably always sing along.
But I’m getting curious about the music we can make when neither of us has to play every part.
You bring something wholly yours.
I bring something wholly mine.
And we listen for what we can make together.
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ROAR with Love,
Danny
The Emotional Driver
“Emotion Is the Note. You Are the Song.”
