3.7.24

Oh, you got to hold on, hold on

You gotta hold on

Take my hand, I’m standing right here

You gotta hold on

Can a song be a hug?

Kind of a strange question, admittedly, but one that I think is worth asking. And if you’ve read any of my previous posts, it should come as no surprise that my answer is yes. A song can, in fact, be a hug.

When Tom Waits’ 1999 album Mule Variations was released, I’d been a dad for around four months. I was a few months away from returning to college to complete my bachelor’s degree in journalism. And I was fairly certain I was going to screw it all up.

Then I heard Hold On, the song that hugged me.

With the voice of a gentle thunderstorm, Waits provided reassurance. Not reassurance that everything would be ok (a notion much too cliched for him and the song’s co-writer, his wife Kathleen Brennan), but that if I wanted things to work out, I had to stake my claim in the world and refuse to let go.

So I did.

And not everything worked out. Some stuff did. Some didn’t. But I continued (and still continue) to stand firm as I can.

Out behind the house, there’s a concrete pad the heating fuel tank stands on. There’s a long, deep crack that runs along the edge, and there’s this bastard of a weed — a vine of some sort — that will not go away. I hack it out, spray it with dish soap and vinegar, call down curses from ancient gods. But the damn thing always grows back.

It holds on.

And I’ll tell you this much. If that freakin’ weed can do it, so can I. And so can most anybody.

Besides, I’ve got something that weed doesn’t. I’ve got a song that hugs me.