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When We Are Together

As a child, I was told I had two voices: my inside voice and my outside voice. My inside voice was soft-spoken and restrained, cautious of walls and ceilings and adults. At least it was supposed to be, but as a preschooler who spoke in full sentences before her first birthday, and who was extremely proud to be the only successful orator in her class, I found it hard to be quiet ever, let alone indoors. How could anyone be taciturn when there are so many important things to be discussed? My mom sent me strawberries for lunch today instead of blueberries and hey look, there’s a bug in that corner over there, and excuse me but he isn’t sharing his crayons with me and you said we have to share! I had a lot to say.

 

More confusing was the fact that in my home, the concept of inside and outside voices was completely flipped on its head. My dad was to blame: a musician trapped in the body of a physician. He played his guitar, and mandolin, and banjo, and laud, and ukulele, and most recently (and most loudly) his violin indoors, without a care for walls or ceilings or adults. At home, my inside voice was boisterous and confident, but no one seemed to care. My parents relished our passionate bedtime debates about our favorite Toy Story scenes and daily jam sessions to “Baby Beluga” and “Victor Vito.” 

 

Outside, however, was another story. And I don’t mean in the backyard, or on the school playground. Allow me to make a minor edit to my previous description of my father: a musician and a biophile trapped in the body of a physician. Every family vacation — with the exception of a few necessary trips to Disney World — have been nature-centered. We’ve sauntered around the rim of Niagara Falls, hiked a twelve-mile out-and-back in the Grand Canyon, white-water rafted through the Colorado River, and rode horses through Zion National Park, twice. What do we do when we’re outside? Do we scream because our sister gets to sit in the jogging stroller and we don’t and that’s not fair! Do we shout because our voice echoes loudly off the mountains and that’s exactly what we are learning about in science class? No. We peacefully take in our surroundings and appreciate the magic of the mountains, the meadow, or the desert around us. Nature does not require complete silence, of course. Some of my most treasured conversational memories have taken place in the midst of the great outdoors. It just strongly encourages us to speak softly. To limit noise pollution. To use our inside voices outside. 

 

As I grew older, my love and respect for nature evolved and I became a master of my inside-outside voice. While I no longer craved the reverberation of my voice against the mountains, I did covet one thing. 

 

Music. A stimulating soundtrack to my natural surroundings. 

 

While headphones seemed like a quick fix, they were tried and tested and ultimately, discarded as a result of a) the constant inconvenience of having to take them out and ask huh?, b) the awkward and inevitable depreciation of my hand-eye coordination while music detained my attention, and c) the contrasting desires to isolate myself in my own world and to take active part in sharing memorable experiences with my family. They were a solution utterly unworkable. Instead, I began to take advantage of moments in the car, an hour or two where I could slip on my headphones and take in the organic scenes that passed. Long drives are unavoidable when visiting a national park, and while some find them cumbersome, I find them delightful. 

 

Window-song [win-doh - sawng] 

noun 

A musical composition that prompts a listener to dramatically gaze out of a window in a contemplative manner.

I press my forehead against the tempered glass of our hefty rental SUV, playing a game I like to call: How Long Can I Keep That Boulder In My Line of Vision. 

 

Riveting. 

 

The Arizonan sun is swiftly setting over the red-hued rocky skyline of Zion National Park. Exasperated from a strenuous day of hiking through ambitiously narrow slot-canyons and boulder-scrambling, it feels nice to sit. My dad drives and I recline next to him in the passenger seat. My mom shares the back row with my younger sisters, their heads rest sleepily in her lap. We exit the park and enter the highway, passing through small towns and nothingness, making our final trip back to our secluded Pueblo Revival style AirBnb. I flip through staticky radio channels before landing on Bluegrass Junction, my Dad’s favorite. 

 

Bill Monroe, David Grisman, Flatt and Scruggs. Whiney fiddles and deft banjo arpeggios.

 

My dad and I share many things: values, a sense of humor, fifty percent of my DNA. Music taste is not one of them, but sometimes we find common ground. I connect my phone via Bluetooth and queue up the perfect compromise. The soft plucks of the acoustic guitar and gentle splash of the drums relax me deeper into my seat. With my gaze fixed outwards, and a strange pensiveness that seems to materialize only in the passenger seat of a moving vehicle, the bluegrass-infused violin pulls me into a dream-like trance, deflecting thoughts of returning to school. I rest my head against the window and the delicate melody of “When We Are Together,” faintly muffled by the hum of the road, soothes me into sleep. 

Recorded just days before the album’s release, “When We Are Together” was a last minute addition to Being Funny, and serves as a final moment of reflection. Following the climax of “About You,” it is the calm after the storm and closes out the record with a gentle, wistful recollection of the chronology of a failed relationship. It begins with an anecdote of subtle tension, at first frivolous enough to ignore. Then, a description of shared adversity, a tear in the system. Finally, a breaking point. But each verse, a timestamp in the relationship, is followed by the repetition of the same chorus: 

 

You ask about the cows, wearin’ my sweater / It’s somethin’ about the weather, that makes them lie down / The only time I feel I might get better, is when we are together 

 

This vulnerable expression reflects the way that love, even toxic love, or tired love, can become a sanctuary, offering a solace so warm it feels worthy of sacrifice. This person is your person, and sometimes that outweighs everything. The song exists in an ephemeral pocket, right before the end of a relationship. A safe alcove, where for a brief moment, the inevitable is put off. They both know this isn’t forever love, but it hasn’t ended yet, so right now, everything is okay. 

 

Her eyes are still wet from recent tears. His hand rests gently on her cheek. The invisible barriers they put up long ago have grown opaque with time, like looking at a beautiful scene through a window. It’s real love, it’s gorgeous love. A magenta colored sunset, the orange hues of rock that has stood still for thousands of years. But the sun hits the glass at a certain angle, creating a subtle glare that steals from the wonder. A reminder of your detachment. 

 

As Matty ponders cows and love lost, I gaze out my window and contemplate the serenity of nature, an unparalleled tranquility that just can’t be felt indoors. Tomorrow I’ll be back at school, coping with the stress of graduation, the uncertainty of the rest of my life. But right now I’m here, languidly marvelling at the setting sun. I could roll down the window, stop the car and ensconce myself in the natural world one last time. But it’s warm in here. It’s comfortable. I can be quiet and I can be loud. And the music sounds nice.

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