I may not always...

Remembering Brian Wilson & parsing truthiness culture.

Brian Wilson died last week. He was 82 years old and nothing short of a musical genius, founding member of the Beach Boys and composer of incomparable tunes like “God Only Knows.” When I saw the news I remembered something about him struggling with mental illness, and I looked it up: his condition included schizoaffective disorder which apparently can cause auditory hallucinations. I didn’t investigate whether these hallucinations led to some of his songwriting, but instinctually it seems related. Slipping between what is “real” and hallucinated sounds like conditions for producing the type of music he once self-described as a “teenage symphony to god.” This was about his album in progress, Smile. It must have been so challenging to be so famous, and inevitably under pressure to present only a certain side of himself to the public.

Weeks before this news, I had downloaded the chart for “God Only Knows” and printed it out. I’d felt drawn to re-learning the tune at the piano, nerding out yet again at chord choices that circle around and drop you in unexpected yet familiar places, not quite in the same key but without enough friction for you to pinpoint exactly what changed. This bouncy, dreamy tapestry holds a classic Beach Boys sound, with choral oohs and aahs and harpichord and accordion and strings: it’s a vibe, and in some ways an entire world.

Andy and I talked about the first verse of that song over dinner the other night:

I may not always love you…

What an opening line for a love song! Introducing uncertainty and doubt in moment 1. But it goes on to proclaim the most romantic guarantee:

I may not always love you

But long as there are stars above you

You’ll never need to doubt it

I’ll make you so sure about it

God only knows what I’d be without you.

I made the argument that the first line was a trick: that he in fact had signed up for forever-love, and the “may not always love you” part was contextualized by the end of the verse to refer to afterlife or spirit realm or something beyond this earthly existence, where romantic love has no shape—only then maybe I will fall out of love, because we won’t exist in the traditional sense when there are not stars above you. But Andy wasn’t so sure, he’s more committed to the idea that songs can hold contradiction like few other things can, and that the uncertainty is an honest part of romantic love. No one knows what’s going to happen, because there’s no way to know the future. Why not start there?

Last week the White House sent the Marines and the National Guard to respond to protests in LA caused by the White House’s own ICE agents. Each of us saw a filtered version of the story on social media and news headlines, seemed like mostly peaceful assemblies intermixed with the occasional flaming waymo or flying rocks. I didn’t check the conservative news outlets to see what headlines they were displaying, but I would guess the weighted order would be reversed: flames first, assemblies second, if at all. Journalist Mina Kimes wrote, “The disparity between what’s actually happening in Los Angeles and the way it’s being mischaracterized is one of the biggest stress tests of modern media in recent memory” — Eek. Everyone’s version of the truth is a little different these days, depending on the confirmation bias they attract. What’s the answer to finding your way through? My friend Natalie’s voice pops into my head:

Discernment.

My question is, can there be true discernment without judgment, without deciding who is correct? How about without complete information, like in the case of our filtered news streams? How do we practice discernment and also disentangle ourselves from our polarized mindsets? Once you discern, don’t you form an opinion to inform your beliefs?

On Sunday we woke up to horrific news that a Minnesota state representative and her husband had been murdered in their bed, and another couple assaulted not far away. The perpetrator was said to be wearing a cop outfit. The first week of ICE raids, someone posted a screenshot from Amazon.com showing that anyone could buy an ICE vest and “become” an agent for about $20. Like deepfakes committing real life crime, it feels like another aspect of our lives where reality is getting mushy, where AI waves and cheap commerce are diluting our grip on the world and “truthiness” is seeping in. It’s not necessarily a permanent state, it feels transitional, on our way to something else. It’s not a stable foundation to build any kind of functioning society, or anything requiring trust or resilience. But it seems to be the new edge we are pushing, and it is what’s happening. In response, California lawmakers have apparently introduced a bill that would prevent law enforcement from wearing masks or other face coverings while in public, the “No Secret Police” Act.

How do we combat this, and reground ourselves in what is real? Discernment — somehow. Learning how to identify fakes, pressure-testing situations before we trust the people involved. Pausing until more is revealed, before we make a decision. Not always possible when we’re moving fast, and not an ideal way to live — starting from mistrust — but it’s part of a modern survival tactic for sure. How are we supposed to open our hearts to people that don’t see the world the way we do, and also refine our ability to discern what can be considered real and trustworthy, at the same time?

I was at an event last weekend in Detroit where yoga teacher and writer Elena Brower did a talk on death & dying. It was profound, she described her current training to become a Buddhist chaplain — something she never would’ve predicted five years ago — and her volunteer work in prisons and hospice. The imprisoned, and the dying, are her most frequent relationships these days. She introduced the Buddhist 5 Remembrances and asked the audience of 100+ people recite them out loud, repeating after her like the human microphones of Occupy Wall Street:

1. I am of the nature to grow old; I cannot avoid aging.

2. I am of the nature to have ill health; I cannot avoid illness.

3. I am of the nature to die; I cannot avoid death.

4. All that is dear to me and everyone I love will eventually be separated from me.

5. I am the owner of my actions, and the heir to my actions; they are my only true belongings.

At #4 my eyes rimmed with tears, and I softened thinking about that depth of loss. I was also tired, on day three of travel and social overload, perfect conditions for my heart cracking open. She then asked us to turn to our neighbor and make these statements again while making eye contact. I had come in late and had taken an empty aisle seat toward the back. I turned to my right, and was surprised to be met with the sweet smile of my old friend Leon. We hadn’t seen each other in probably a decade, since we were campmates at Burning Man, or maybe some gathering in the year that followed. But since then we’d only experienced each others’ lives on Instagram, taking in brief stories and snapshots of who the other had become.

His eyes were bright and clear, and I intentionally relaxed my wide smile to focus on his left eye, as instructed. He stated the remembrances to me, slowly and with care. I received each one fully, seeing him. Then it was my turn.

I am of the nature to grow old; I cannot avoid aging.

He looks the same to me. Do I look older to him? I don’t care really, but I’m curious how the 10 years has worn on my face. I feel so different than the person he briefly knew.

I am of the nature to have ill health; I cannot avoid illness.

That recent two-week virus, the way my father died, oof. I am so grateful for my working body and my ability to run around and do what I want.

All that is dear to me and everyone I love will eventually be separated from me.

I said these words to Leon, and the tears came again. All that is dear to me, every bit of it, will go away. Every person I love, every creature, every comfort and pleasure and joy. Some of it will outlast me, and I’ll go away—less heartbreaking, still poignant. Then I felt a larger ripple of loss, the world’s pain, a collective ache. A nostalgia for something before it’s gone, informed by all we’ve lost.

I am the owner of my actions, and the heir to my actions; they are my only true belongings.

This is it. This is really all that matters. How do I show up? What do I say, what do I do? What will be the lasting effect, how do I impact others? How can I show up in more and more integrity, peace, compassion, soft power—the qualities I want to see in the world?

He held my gaze and smiled, held me through the ebb and flow of those tears. Then we hugged and said thank you. We didn’t even try to catch up on life, we just acknowledged how special that presence and vulnerability was. I felt relief at having emptied out. When you’re empty there’s less to lose, in a good way. The next moment can be a fresh start.

Every couple of months during pandemic lockdown my mom, in her early ‘70s and sheltering in place alone, would have an understandable bout of frustration and claustrophobia and boredom and would exclaim in reaction to not being able to travel, “I feel like I’ve been cheated. I don’t have all that many years left.” At that point I’d usually reassure her that I was certain she had many many years left, and remind her that the whole world was in some version of the same boat. She would travel again, she would have a life again. But in that moment it felt unbelievable to her, and all she felt was wronged.

For whatever reason, I don’t share that sense of being owed a certain life other than this one. It’s not that I don’t wish a million things were different. But I attempt, over and over, to draw that clear line around what I can control. I’m both optimistic for a better future, and accepting of the cards I’ve been dealt: I can’t seem to imagine an alternate life for myself where this stuff is sorted out or nonexistent. This is the wave I paddled out to catch. It’s chaotic but maybe it’ll have a great crest, a barrel, maybe it’ll pummel me in whitewash, who knows but we make our meaning in the mess.

We find certainty where we can — as long as there are stars above…

We accept what we can’t know — I may not always….

And we keep going, as much time as we’re given.

We keep going.

Backing track: my own version of “God Only Knows” by the Beach Boys, on acoustic piano + harmonium.