Earlier this year, one of my favorite folk rock bands, The Lone Bellow, released their second album, "Then Came the Morning." It's a beautiful showcase of the band's abilities, which already were so strongly evident in their self-titled first album.

I love this band for many reasons: visceral emotion (they really put their hearts into their performances); their beautiful three-part vocals; use of upright bass, violin and piano; and the way I find these bits and pieces of scriptural themes in their songwriting. I don't know whether the latter is intentional or if I'm just seeing it because I'm looking. Either way, I love it.

Here's an example from their current album. In Psalm 30, there's this beautiful verse, "Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning." That's a verse I think of often on nights when I'm feeling at my worst — I hold onto the knowledge that the morning brings a rested mind and a fresh perspective.

I don't know the story behind the title song, "Then Came the Morning," but it sounds like a break-up song, whether of a marriage or longtime relationship, I don't know. But the line that's repeated is one of relief, of light and water rushing in to wash away heartbreak.



"Then Came The Morning," by The Lone Bellow


Then came the morning
It was bright, like a light that you kept from your smile
Then came the morning
Like a flood from the storm that you kept from my heart

Take the dog with you when you leave
Wash my hands of all this broken heave
Never forget what you thought you’d never be
If you ever let me
Break the spell and try and
Leave it when we couldn’t find it

Then came the morning
It was bright, like a light that you kept from your smile
Then came the morning
Like a flood from the storm that you kept from my heart

Take my words, breathe them out like smoke
Burn every single letter that I wrote
Let the pages turn to ash, I don’t want them back
Everything you always said to me
Starts to sound like broken glass on streets
Spreaded out all over places where I sleep

Now you finally left me
Done with all your lying
Joy comes in the morning
You won’t see me crying

Then came the morning
It was bright, like the light that you kept from your smile
Then came the morning
Like a flood from the storm that you kept from my heart

Then came the morning
It was lost when you left when you took what I felt
Then came the morning
Then came the morning
Then came the morning
Then came the morning

Then the storm breaks the cold
Not towards the line I thought you stole
Start to feel what I felt way before
You broke down my front door
Popped my heart up off the wooden floor
Now I don’t need your smile anymore

Then came the morning
It was bright, like a light that you kept from your smile
Then came the morning
Like a flood from the storm that you kept from my heart

Then came the morning
Then came the morning
Then came the morning
Then came the morning
Then came the morning

Isn't that beautiful? It really captures how we as humans often hold joy in one hand and heartbreak in the other.

If you liked that, you might also like a song with scriptural threads from their first album, "Teach Me to Know." It echoes a line from Psalm 39:4, which says "Show me, Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting my life is."


"Teach Me To Know," by The Lone Bellow


First born
Carried promise of the old one
You're the same but somehow different
Bared the burdens of the line

It breaks in
And you never see it coming
Seems like every other morning
Like a secret you can't tell

And you get carried away
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)

Out there
Thousand years into the future
Almost nothing of it seems sure
Things so rarely stay the same

Right here
In these burning simple seconds
Living out all your best guesses
Someone's calling out your name

And you get carried away
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)

Teach me to know my number of days
Hold out my heart from getting carried
[x3]

Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)

Buy the music


Like what you hear and want to hear the rest? To purchase The Lone Bellow's new album, visit thelonebellow.com or find it on iTunes or Amazon

Read more posts in the Groovy Tuesday series here
This week, I was held hostage by the words of magnificent storyteller Margaret Atwood, whose hefty 521-page book, “The Blind Assassin” is a masterwork, as nearly perfect a novel as I have ever read. I give it five stars out of five.

I’m thankful this story was my first venture into Atwood Land, because now I’m hooked. I certainly will read “The Handmaid’s Tale” and some of her other classics.

First, a forewarning: If you undertake to read this book at my recommendation, don’t be surprised if you find yourself, like one Goodreads reviewer noted, tempted to abandon ship because “the story moves too slowly.” I promise, the slow burn is intentional on Atwood’s part. The tale builds as new layers are added, and the payoff will be worth every moment you spent wondering whether the dust jacket copy had it right: that events will “follow one another at a breathtaking pace.”

On the novel’s first page, we learn Laura Chase has died of an apparent suicide, ten days after the end of World War II, and left behind her sister, who is narrator Iris Chase Griffen. Just as the story starts to unfold through Iris’s perspective, we are diverted to a novel within the novel, “The Blind Assassin,” which was published posthumously on behalf of Laura by Iris.

From there, the story alternates between the larger narrative – Iris, in her 80s in the year 1998, writing a memoir about her and Laura’s life and what led up to the suicide – and the novel-within-a-novel, a sci-fi story a young man tells to his lover as they meet in seedy places.

There also are stretches where Iris talks for a few pages about what’s going on in her present-day life (hint: she is fond of The Weather Channel and likes to describe what's growing in her garden), and there are a lot of “clippings” from local newspapers and gossip columnists of the '30s and '40s that help mark milestones in the Chase and Griffen saga.

Here’s what I loved about this story — and I suspect this also is what might hinder impatient readers: For so long, you don’t know where you stand on the Iris question. Do I like her? Is she weak-willed or strong? Did she even like her sister Laura? Why did things go so hard for her? What is the mystery at the bottom of her languorous reflections on the past? Why is she writing this memoir?

The answers will be revealed. And you will feel SO good when the curtain falls.

Read more posts in the Storytelling Sunday series here.
You'll know you're a '90s kid if you can name this TV show. 





’90s Kid


By Rachel E. Watson

I am asked to sing at a ’90s throwback party.
The guests will wear acid wash jeans, unbuttoned
flannel shirts, crop tops, high tops and flat tops,
scrunchies securing towering side ponytails.

I search YouTube for a suitable set list:
perhaps Destiny’s Child or Spice Girls,
Britney or TLC, Smash Mouth, Barenaked Ladies,
'N Sync, Boyz II Men or Backstreet Boys.

I don Hammer pants and a windbreaker,
and try to relax as memories of how very,
very uncool I was then sweep past me
like one of the fast kids at the roller rink.

I cling to one important thing as I ring
the hostess’ doorbell and walk into a
living room that looks like the Huxtables’:
I lived through this once. I can do it again.

Copyright © Rachel E. Watson 2015.

Read more of my poetry blog posts here.
Bob Dylan

This week, I at last worked up the emotional fortitude to listen to a mix CD a former co-worker made me as a goodbye gift when I left my last job. 

I'm so glad I listened to it. It was full of beautiful songs about the pursuit of right living and kindness to others, about the winding road of life and the troubles we face along the way.

The final song was the slow version of Bob Dylan's "Forever Young." I read that he wrote this song in Tucson, Arizona, in 1973, while thinking of his young son.

I'm not thinking of my son when I listen to it, because I don't have a son. I'm thinking about the words I give birth to on this blog and how they might affect each of you readers. I'm thinking about how life is short — too short to waste time getting stuck in regrets and missing out on the light and beauty around me.

I'm holding onto this song, and I'm going to keep singing my own song. I hope you do, too. And I hope your heart stays young while you build that ladder to the stars.



"Forever Young"


By Bob Dylan, 1973

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
And may your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.


Read more posts in the Groovy Tuesday series here.
I collected a dozen churches on my 65-minute walk last Sunday afternoon.

I did it for health reasons, really. After a full weekend of reading and writing, I felt like I'd been sitting still so long I was practically growing sprouts, like a potato left in the pantry too long.

So, with a mighty heave, I yanked my taproot off the couch and stumbled out into the 45-degree sunshine — a welcome warmup after a winter of polar vortices.

Dressed all in black, from jacket to flats, I soaked up the relative heat and set off on a stroll through my Heritage Hill neighborhood and all around the east and southeast parts of downtown Grand Rapids. 

There were so many church spires piercing the gray-blue sky, and it was Sunday, the Christian day of worship, so I decided to collect as many churches on my walk as I could find in an hour.

Unexpectedly, the experience began to feel like an act of worship the longer I walked and the more denominations I found. The sidewalk converted to a sanctuary, and the churches were my vicars, pointing me to their true purpose.

Here's a little map-and-key I made showing the churches on my route. 





















I found myself thinking I could launch a quest to visit these churches' worship services (except the one that's an apartment building now) so I could tell you — and me — what makes them all different. It would be like an adventure in religious journalism. And what a better place to worship than in my own neighborhood?

Hmm. I think my bucket list just got a little longer.

Read more posts in the Storytelling Sunday series here.


Social Media Blues


By Rachel Watson

I’ve got a deadline. A project due in less than a week.
I open my blank document, start typing titular details,
left-aligned, top of the page and single-spaced.

Then I see a little red “1” on my phone screen, so I go
check that. It’s just a status update from someone I starred.
She was sharing a Buzzfeed quiz.

But oh, wait, I haven’t seen this quiz. Maybe I really need
to know whether I’m a mountain or beach vacation.
It will only take a minute. Promise.

Great. Quiz done. It’s time to focus. Shoot. I just remembered
that last night I finished reading a Neil Gaiman novel
and totally forgot to update Goodreads.

So I go do that, moving it from “reading” to my “read”
bookshelf. While I’m here, though, I might as well check
to see if anyone’s left me a recommendation.

What! How did I not know Anne Lamott had another
book out? Time to hop over to Amazon and order
that bad boy. Omg, I’m getting free shipping on this.

I’ve got to tell my Twitter followers it’s out, that I liked
the Gaiman book, that I’m a mountain vacation
(in the Alps, no less), and see what’s trending.

How did it get to be lunchtime? Where has the day
gone? And then I hear the whooshing
sound of a new text message.

Rabbit trail re-entered. Shuffle and repeat.

Copyright © Rachel E. Watson 2015.

Read more of my poetry blog posts here.
Today, I'm celebrating with a friend and former roommate, singer-songwriter Sarah Lamb, who last week released her debut EP, "Waiting," under the name .ara.

The music is a pleasant, sometimes haunting mixture of pop and R&B, and it fully exercises the beauty of Sarah's vocal range. 

The songwriting unveils honest yearnings for artistic success, romantic love and a deeper faith connection to God.

Album cover art by Kaitlin Jean Photography.

Sarah, who is originally from New London, Wisconsin, studied Spanish and music at Cornerstone University in Grand Rapids, Michigan. 

While at Cornerstone, she sang and played keyboard as a member of the school's Sunday night Evensong worship band, and she also sang in the eight-part a capella Credo choir. 

After graduation — during the time we were roommates — Sarah spent a few years managing bookings and tours for West Michigan bands and singing background vocals for other acts, as well as working full- and part-time day jobs.

Then, she moved to Nashville a few years ago to pursue her dream of becoming a recording artist in her own right.

I'm so happy to see Sarah realizing another step toward her lifelong goals. I hope you'll join me in supporting her music.

Buy the EP


To buy the EP "Waiting," by .ara., visit her website or buy it directly from iTunes. To receive updates, "Like" her Facebook page, ARA.-Music.


Read more posts in the Groovy Tuesday series here.
Why do I waste time when I want to be writing? There's a Seinfeld episode that holds the key.

It was part of my plan today to write a blog post first thing — either a new piece of short fiction or some thoughts about my writing process — but I’ve been procrastinating all day.

What I’ve done instead is I’ve read:

  • Part of a Salon.com article about an English teacher whose mother was F. Scott Fitzgerald’s last lover.
  • Splitsider post about the Seinfeld “Parking Garage” bottle episode.
  • A gossip columnist’s take on Selena Gomez’s rude ankle-baring selfie in a Dubai mosque.
  • An NPR story about an English greenhouse that's battling global threats against the cocoa plant.

I researched vows of silence in the Catholic monastic tradition. I checked our bank account balance. I scrolled through my Facebook and Twitter feeds in search of new reading material on top of what I’ve already read today.

But none of that was what I set out to do this morning, and so this detour becomes what I want to talk about instead.

"The Parking Garage" episode of Seinfeld.
In the Seinfeld “Parking Garage” episode, Jerry drops a remark I think captures the trouble I’m having today: “Why do I always have the feeling that everybody’s doing something better than me on Saturday afternoons?”

Now granted, it’s Sunday, not Saturday, but you get the point. The time-wasting that ensues on Facebook and in other types of Internet surfing is egged on by that little voice in your head that says: “Before you live your own life, check this person's life out. It’s bound to be better than what you had planned.”

But is it? Not usually. What is more rewarding than sticking to your commitment to write? What is better than the faithful pursuit of your craft? What gives more pleasure than knowing you are doing what you were made to do?

Next time I sit down to a blank page, I’m going to hold onto the memory of this moment and that wisdom from Seinfeld. And I’m going to close my web browser and buckle down to work.

Read more posts in the Storytelling Sunday series here.
I just attended a poetry workshop at Jot Writers' Conference. The workshop leader, Matt Landrum, of Structo Magazine, asked participants to bring poems to be read and critiqued by the group. I brought my poem "Wildscape," which I shared in my last blog post.

I really, truly appreciated the feedback the participants shared, so I'm reposting the poem, updated to incorporate some suggestions from the workshop.

First, I've played with the structure. The lines run longer before breaking, which I hope gives the dream-like vibe more room to breathe.

Second, I've taken out the parts in which the narrator passes judgment — e.g., "he smiled at me sardonically / and answered me laconically" and "the years had not been kind" — and I've replaced them with more detailed description — aiming to show instead of tell.

Here's the updated poem:

(Photo: Free images)













"Wildscape"


By Rachel E. Watson

I met an old friend last night in the wildscape of my dreams.
It had been at least a dozen years since we last locked eyes.

I saw him sitting at my mother’s aging patio set in a sunny
wildflow’r garden bordered by a treehouse with a ladder.

He leaned back, tipping his chair, with that middle-parted
hair, grinding grooves in the ground as I regarded him anew.

I asked if he recalled basement jams and living room horror
film fests. He stared, lip twitching, and said, “It’s all gone.”

I saw his gaunt, waxy face—his frayed sweatshirt, sleeves
pushed up, baring black veins and cracked, stained nails.

How did such hardness spin from a childhood we shared—
our histories running parallel like train tracks for miles?

For all I knew, he saw the garden, the table, the treehouse
and chairs, and pitied me likewise, for not getting out— 

For staying put.


And again, here was the original draft of the poem, to compare. Fun stuff!

About Jot Writers' Conference


Jot is a semi-annual, one-night only conference founded by a Michigan writers' group, The Weaklings. The four-hour event features speakers from all walks of the writing life, from publishers and agents to folks who write fiction, nonfiction, memoir, blogs, poetry and children's literature. The lectures are followed by hands-on workshops in which small groups meet to share and discuss their work.

To learn more about the event, visit jotwritersconference.com, or "Like" the Jot Facebook page.
(Photo: Free images)

Wildscape


By Rachel Watson

I met an old friend last night
in the wildscape of my dreams.
It had been a dozen years 
since we last locked eyes.

I saw him sitting 
at my mother’s kitchen table
in a sunny wildflow’r garden
next to the ladder on a treehouse.

He leaned back, tipping his chair,
with that middle-parted hair,
grinding deep grooves in the ground
while I regarded him anew.

I asked if he recalled basement jams
and living room horror film fests.
He smiled at me sardonically
and answered me laconically.

The years had not been kind:
I saw it in his gaunt, hollow features,
his spare, worn clothing,
and the cracks and stains in his nails.

How did such hardness spin
from a childhood I thought we shared?
Then I reflected that he held little
of my own family’s story, too.

For all I knew, he saw the garden,
the table, the treehouse, the chairs,
and pitied me in the way I pitied him
for not getting out. For staying put.

Copyright © Rachel E. Watson 2015.


Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.


My favorite singer-songwriter Brandi Carlile's newest album, "The Firewatcher's Daughter" has been out for a week, and I've been immersing myself in it to fully absorb and convey its delightful flavor to you.

The record's a gutsy, heart-filled mixture of fast and slow, happy and sad, contented and regretful, all bound with a common theme: the importance of resting in love and family, the value in feeling your yesterdays but living your todays.

The theme is a natural progression for Carlile and her symbiotic bandmates and co-writers, Tim and Phil Hanseroth, aka "The Twins." They've all started families since their last album, 2012's "Bear Creek." And the maturity and depth they've gained through that experience means they're only getting better musically. 

I can't say I have a favorite song on the album — at least not yet. But here's the one I think best embodies the feeling of being a wanderer who's still rooted to a place, connected to a family:


"Wherever Is Your Heart"


I think it's time we found a way back home
You lose so many things you love as you grow
I missed the days when I was just a kid
My fear became my shadow, I swear it did

Wherever is your heart I call home
Wherever is your heart I call home
Though your feet may take you far from me, I know
Wherever is your heart I call home

You made me feel like I was always falling
Always falling down without a place to land
Somewhere in the distance, heard you calling
It hurts so bad to let go of your hand

Wherever is your heart I call home
Wherever is your heart I call home
Though your feet may take you far from me, I know
Wherever is your heart I call home

Even when you're high, you can get low
Even with the friends you love, you're still alone
We always find the darkest place to go
God forgive our minds,

We were born to roam

Wherever is your heart I call home
Wherever is your heart I call home
Though your feet may take you far from me, I know
Wherever is your heart I call home

God forgive my mind 
God forgive my mind when I come home
God forgive my mind
There's a road that's long and winds and hollers home
I'm calling home

God forgive my mind
God forgive my mind when I come home

Here's one that just plain rocks:


And of course, there's the beautiful single the band performed on tour leading up to the album release, "The Eye." What's really special about this one is the shared three-part vocals all the way through. It's practically a capella, so their voices get the chance to really shine. 


These three just keep getting better the longer they're together. I can't wait to see what they do next.

Read more posts in the Groovy Tuesday series here.
Robin Williams as Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society."


Last night, my husband spent some time reading poetry aloud to me. One of the things he read was Walt Whitman's tribute to Abraham Lincoln after his assassination, "O Captain! My Captain," which was made more significant to our generation by its mention in the film "Dead Poets Society."

The tears rained down my cheeks as I traveled 150 years backward into our nation's history and tried to imagine the heartbreak I'd feel if Lincoln had been my leader and I'd lost him. I commented to Adam that I again felt the transcendence of creativity as I cried over words written so long ago, by a man who is dead, for a man who died. That words should live so long in our collective memory and carry so much power truly is a beautiful mystery.

Do verses penned in our time hold such sway over our souls? For me, the answer is yes.

The other day, my mind was drifting into the past, and a song an old friend wrote came to me.

I googled the lyrics I could remember and was startled to find that there is no trace of the song anywhere online, despite the fact that it was recorded on an album of his from 10-plus years ago. I still have that album, and it's almost unlistenable because I've over-loved it through the years. The latter tracks are scratched beyond repair, which include the song I'm thinking of: "Grieve."

The only place I can play the CD is in my car; it skips too much when I try to use my computer. So this morning, I sat in my car in the garage listening to it over and over so I could transcribe the lyrics before it's totally unplayable.

Since the song's beauty and melancholy have stuck with me, I want to share the lyrics with you today, in hopes they will connect with your heart like they've stayed in mine.

I only wish I could share a recording of it, too.

"Grieve," by Titus Cole


She put her feet on the cold, hard floor
Glanced in the mirror and walked out the door
I wonder, how can she be so sure?

She lives her life as if
She’s a flag on a hill who just can’t catch a drift
Of wind to help her to unfurl

Ooh, I know what I have to do
And I laugh at the pain that we’ve both been through
But, Sunday morning comes and
Though we both know what needs to be done
I just swallow
And the phone sits on the shelf

If God in heaven has changed your mind and
If you now know what it means to be blinded by others,
And the whims of falsity

If the rumors I hear are true
Then why am I standing lonely and blue on the brink?
Hopelessness is constancy

Oh, I know what I have to do
And I laugh to think of such a pair of fools
But, Sunday morning comes and
Though we both know what needs to be done
I just swallow
And the phone sits on the shelf

[Instrumental interlude]

As long as there are tears left to cry
As long as there is any truth left to deny
I now realize
That I will love you still

And if you never give a thought to me
And even if age should come to claim me
I realize
That I will love you still

Oh I know what I have to do
And I laugh every time that I think of you
But, Sunday morning comes and
Though we both know what needs to be done
I just swallow
And the phone sits on the shelf

And I grieve for you
I grieve for you
I grieve

That verse, "She lives her life as if // she's a flag on a hill who just can't catch a drift // Of wind, to help her to unfurl" resonates with me greatly. I remember feeling that way so often throughout my adolescence and young adulthood, and even sometimes still, as I doubt my own abilities to write. 

As members of the human race, we know there are gifts inside us, but we need help opening up to them and displaying them for the world. This is what people like Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society" can do for us. They can see our hidden gifts and coax them out into the light. 

Today, I'm thankful for the teachers and coaches among us. I'm thankful for artistic talent. And I'm thankful for the transcendent power of the written word.

What about you?


I'd love to hear from you if there's a song, poem, story or artwork that won't let you go, even after years and years. Leave me a comment here or at my Facebook Community page.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.
This graphic was borrowed from the popular TV show, "Mythbusters."


"You are not at the mercy of The Muse."

So saith one of my new favorite authors, Vinita Hampton Wright, in her delightful 2005 treatise on creativity and the spirit world, "The Soul Tells a Story: Engaging Creativity with Spirituality in the Writing Life."

Her startling declaration above directly contradicts the novice, some would say amateur assumption underlying much of my writing life to this point: I'm helpless to create until inspiration comes.

No, Wright says. You must write each day and trust that the words will come when you place your hands on the keyboard.

There will be days when you're writing page after page of free-flowing prose. There will be days when it's time to stop, buckle down and edit what you've written. There will be days when much of what you write later lands on the cutting room floor.

But you don't ever need to wait for this phantom-like Muse to strike. It's not that The Muse is a lie. It's not that you won't still experience those lightning-bolt moments of clarity when the words and ideas rush to you unbidden, nearly perfect and whole with no alteration.

That's the beauty of this calling. You'll still get that rush. You'll still write paragraphs that flow forth from your fingertips with no warning. When the tide ebbs, you'll look back and marvel at words that can only be described as supernaturally delivered, because there's no way you could have written them on your own.

But the essence of Wright's wisdom is that the well can never truly run dry. Why? Because creativity is a divine gift, a godlike attribute bestowed by the Ultimate Creator to every single person. It's He who gives it, and His resources are endless, His universe is infinite, and His love for his creatures is perfect.

If we trust in that, the only responsible thing to do is come to the keyboard each day and write. If you fear the words won't come, pray for them. Plead for them.

But don't give up. As my fellow writer Andrew Rogers recently urged, go to that comfy chair, that austere office, that bustling coffee house, wherever it is you do the work of perseverance, and trust that the God who fitted you to your calling will be faithful to supply what you need.

Learn more


To learn about the practices, inspiration, beauty and dangers of the writing life, as well as how to more fully integrate your creativity and spirituality, read Vinita Hampton Wright's book, "The Soul Tells a Story." You can find it at Amazon or at Barnes and Noble.

Read more posts in my Storytelling Sunday series here.