Man, what a beautiful way to experience it. Thank you for listening out there in the woods — hope the writing has been going well, and hope the quiet has been exactly what you needed.
Sitting alone in an empty house this morning—husband working, boys all away overnight—I’m not at all embarrassed to tell you how the tears flowed, reading and listening to this. Such a hard and often desolate road here, inhospitable at times, I could only know this level of gratitude having yearned so deeply for what I managed to find.
Thank you as always, Matt, for giving us these moments… full stops with the most sublime views.
Wow, thank you Bree. What a beautiful way to put it. The contrast between the hard, desolate stretches of yearning (the exact right word) and the gratitude on the other side...that's weathering in its truest form. Thank you as always.
"Everything made more beautiful because of what it endures, not in spite of it." I love the way you talk about parenthood Matt. Your words always feel so resonate with my own experience with my little guy, capturing that beautiful complexity of watching them grow older and cherishing them while they're young. This piece feel like that, like quiet mornings holding a baby folding into the opening wonder and joy when they become they're own little person.
Thank you, Kerani - this is so right, so touching. The way you describe that transition—from holding them close to watching them become their own person—is so tender and true. I'm grateful these pieces are meeting you where you are with little J. Thank you for sharing this (and thank you for listening, as always).
So tender Matt, I don't think anything in this world teaches us love more fully, teaches us weathering more fully than a son or a daughter... I have one of each, one grown, one almost - they are my music and my songs, always.
"They are my music and my songs, always"—what a beautiful way to hold them. One grown, one almost...you're in such a tender season yourself. Thank you for these words, Susie. They mean a lot.
Alice, I had to return to this, days later, to give my fullest attention. I admittedly skim most poetry around these parts, but the good stuff sticks in my throat and my belly. Where might I read more of your work??
Bree, thank you so much for asking about my poems. I'm terrible about social media and only show up here once in a while because I'm such a fan of Matt's music (and being). I'm on this page of the Poetry Foundation https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/alice-b-fogel, and elsewhere online, and have a bunch of poetry books out there. The most recent (and not too terribly difficult!) one is Falsework, available through Amazon or maybe through this bookstore https://toadbooks.com/ Thanks again for asking.
I thought that might be you! I never want to assume the veracity of Google results these days. ;) Thanks so much for responding, and I'm with you here in fandom. Very grateful for the introduction to you and your work, and makes perfect sense that Matt would be the conduit. Hope to see you here in the comments again!
Oh, Alice. This poem is extraordinary. The way you move through the seasons, through birth and watching and the trust that comes from repetition—it's breathtaking. "You will not remember this, that I stood watching" broke my heart. Thank you for this gift, thank you for sharing it.
It is a lovely blustery, pale blue sky day. I cannot be sure, but as I sit within the mood of your photos, thoughts and musical notes, I do believe you have called the White throated sparrows down to our bird bath. I choose to believe in the magic of music and bird serenade.
I absolutely choose to believe in that magic too. What a perfect image—the sparrows arriving on a blustery pale blue day. Thank you for sitting with this one, Lor!
Another lovely gem, Matt. And some good dadspriation. I've been in a negative parenting mood this morning regarding general societal failures to support kids and parents, but this turned that around a bit. Thanks!
Man, I feel you on that. Some mornings the weight of it all is too much, and the failures you're talking about are real and heavy. You're showing up anyway Ryan, and that's what matters. I feel like most of the time we're all doing our best in what seem like impossible conditions. Anyway, I'm really glad this turned your morning around a bit.
I hope you make it to Big Bend someday! It's stunning and vast. Definitely worth the trip from AZ. These pictures are mostly from the Chisos Mountains area.
Listened to Weathering, gorgeous guitar. I am hooked so checked out Apple Music and there was Oblivion! Thank you for the Father’s Poem; we did not have a daughter (3 sons) but I watch my oldest son with his two daughters and I can feel and see his tender fragility toward them. They are strong little girls who are brave and yes, teach him risk. Oblivion is the prefect backdrop for melancholy autumn. Thank you for your achingly beautiful music. It will keep me afloat during these strange times and remind me to turn toward loved ones and nature.
This is such a beautiful reflection, Maureen—thank you for sharing it. Watching your oldest with his daughters sounds like its own kind of teaching, but his "tender fragility" is surely the mark of his having been raised by thoughtful and patient parents. I'm glad you liked the poem. I have a son, too (no daughter), but I came across the poem after my little guy face-planted off of a tall chair (after I asked him not to sit on it, of course) and it was exactly what I needed to read. And thank you for listening to Oblivion!
This song and your words are both so bright and beautiful and full of love
That is really nice of you to say, Yardena - thank you so much for listening and reading!
This beautiful song is exactly the balm my tender heart needed today. Thank you.
I'm so glad to hear that, Bridget - thank you so much for letting me know.
guitar tone is too damn good
High praise from you, Austin - thanks so much man
Absolutely gorgeous Matt. I’m laying in a hammock in the middle of the woods, listening to it right now. So good my friend.
Man, what a beautiful way to experience it. Thank you for listening out there in the woods — hope the writing has been going well, and hope the quiet has been exactly what you needed.
Sitting alone in an empty house this morning—husband working, boys all away overnight—I’m not at all embarrassed to tell you how the tears flowed, reading and listening to this. Such a hard and often desolate road here, inhospitable at times, I could only know this level of gratitude having yearned so deeply for what I managed to find.
Thank you as always, Matt, for giving us these moments… full stops with the most sublime views.
Wow, thank you Bree. What a beautiful way to put it. The contrast between the hard, desolate stretches of yearning (the exact right word) and the gratitude on the other side...that's weathering in its truest form. Thank you as always.
Your combination of context with the music... it just hits me right where I live.
"Everything made more beautiful because of what it endures, not in spite of it." I love the way you talk about parenthood Matt. Your words always feel so resonate with my own experience with my little guy, capturing that beautiful complexity of watching them grow older and cherishing them while they're young. This piece feel like that, like quiet mornings holding a baby folding into the opening wonder and joy when they become they're own little person.
Thank you, Kerani - this is so right, so touching. The way you describe that transition—from holding them close to watching them become their own person—is so tender and true. I'm grateful these pieces are meeting you where you are with little J. Thank you for sharing this (and thank you for listening, as always).
So tender Matt, I don't think anything in this world teaches us love more fully, teaches us weathering more fully than a son or a daughter... I have one of each, one grown, one almost - they are my music and my songs, always.
Thank you for this beautiful insightful piece...
"They are my music and my songs, always"—what a beautiful way to hold them. One grown, one almost...you're in such a tender season yourself. Thank you for these words, Susie. They mean a lot.
Wonderful as always
Thank you—I really appreciate you being here, Louise.
No master the topic, the music and words of wisdom in your newsletter are always exactly what I needed to hear.
This means more than you know. Thank you for trusting me with your time and attention each month, hw.
Matt, your beautiful note made me think of this poem from one of my first books.
Weather
The more intimate we are with weather
the less we question anything else.
Birth, death, age and change,
the helplessness of rabbits in an owl’s talons,
the evaporation of wet cloth on the line.
Life is in the melting pawprint of maple leaf
I see each winter in snow, the way the snow
cups itself for warmth beneath thinned leaves,
supports the trunks of trees, smooths the steepness
of hills. Weather saves the important things.
For sons and daughters come again arrows of ice
softening into tears, come again
the lush and the pallid, and the twisted trees like those
Moses must have seen, when he argued with God
to be kind. Now, with this new birth in spring,
everything is as clear as the snow when it melts,
as clear as the spreading green of new leaves,
as the pond skimmed with dragonflies and the air
one coming October day. I could grow old
happily, looking at my world like this, at each
of you in it, every month of the year.
In February the wait. In March the chance
of running sap, birds spreading seed in April
and the drying of heavy mud brushed by wind.
Then the plantings, and blankets for late frost,
the tending of growing things and mending
of fences, all with the touch of the artist
moving through galleries. August’s warm stars,
September’s tomatoes and moons, the autumn
harvesting of daylight, color and food.
The sleepy cold of December, mice running
through ice tunnels into the changing year.
Weather says everything changes, and we know it
with comfort, not fear. Always, the same way,
we talk each year of the differences: Remember
that wall of snow taller than a man, how early
the blackflies came last year? Everything
is precious in continuance and in brevity,
in the sureness of its presence while it lasts,
how it seems to burst upon the scene, and how later
we remember its slow fade. Newest child,
you are the same in how each day, like weather,
you are different, your very cells, the sentience
of your eyes and tiny hands. I love you
for how fragile you are, how close to the surface
that edge of mortality waits, even as you grow.
There is nothing tentative about you, or about
my gaze, which sweeps you in like a tidal wave.
What secret storms will cloud your blood,
what old reigns does your breath recall?
Small blue veins rise on your forehead
like shore birds lifting off from your eyes.
You will not remember this, that I stood watching,
counting your lashes as they grew like evergreens
on a far hillside, when the June sunlight
clarifies every line and shape with heat.
You will not remember a time before the seasons
had gone around enough times for you to know
the meaning of their repetition and trust
their sequence with undying faith.
Alice, I had to return to this, days later, to give my fullest attention. I admittedly skim most poetry around these parts, but the good stuff sticks in my throat and my belly. Where might I read more of your work??
Bree, thank you so much for asking about my poems. I'm terrible about social media and only show up here once in a while because I'm such a fan of Matt's music (and being). I'm on this page of the Poetry Foundation https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/alice-b-fogel, and elsewhere online, and have a bunch of poetry books out there. The most recent (and not too terribly difficult!) one is Falsework, available through Amazon or maybe through this bookstore https://toadbooks.com/ Thanks again for asking.
I thought that might be you! I never want to assume the veracity of Google results these days. ;) Thanks so much for responding, and I'm with you here in fandom. Very grateful for the introduction to you and your work, and makes perfect sense that Matt would be the conduit. Hope to see you here in the comments again!
Oh, Alice. This poem is extraordinary. The way you move through the seasons, through birth and watching and the trust that comes from repetition—it's breathtaking. "You will not remember this, that I stood watching" broke my heart. Thank you for this gift, thank you for sharing it.
Thank you - and for the riff on fatherhood.
Of course. Thank you for being here, Chip
gorgeous song....well done :) it just makes me feel good....
That's all I could hope for. Thank you for listening, Michelle!
It is a lovely blustery, pale blue sky day. I cannot be sure, but as I sit within the mood of your photos, thoughts and musical notes, I do believe you have called the White throated sparrows down to our bird bath. I choose to believe in the magic of music and bird serenade.
Thanks, Matt!
I absolutely choose to believe in that magic too. What a perfect image—the sparrows arriving on a blustery pale blue day. Thank you for sitting with this one, Lor!
Another lovely gem, Matt. And some good dadspriation. I've been in a negative parenting mood this morning regarding general societal failures to support kids and parents, but this turned that around a bit. Thanks!
Man, I feel you on that. Some mornings the weight of it all is too much, and the failures you're talking about are real and heavy. You're showing up anyway Ryan, and that's what matters. I feel like most of the time we're all doing our best in what seem like impossible conditions. Anyway, I'm really glad this turned your morning around a bit.
For real...thanks, man.
Oops Father’s Song and we are desert dwellers (AZ) but have not visited Big Bend yet. Will do after seeing these pics.
I hope you make it to Big Bend someday! It's stunning and vast. Definitely worth the trip from AZ. These pictures are mostly from the Chisos Mountains area.
Listened to Weathering, gorgeous guitar. I am hooked so checked out Apple Music and there was Oblivion! Thank you for the Father’s Poem; we did not have a daughter (3 sons) but I watch my oldest son with his two daughters and I can feel and see his tender fragility toward them. They are strong little girls who are brave and yes, teach him risk. Oblivion is the prefect backdrop for melancholy autumn. Thank you for your achingly beautiful music. It will keep me afloat during these strange times and remind me to turn toward loved ones and nature.
This is such a beautiful reflection, Maureen—thank you for sharing it. Watching your oldest with his daughters sounds like its own kind of teaching, but his "tender fragility" is surely the mark of his having been raised by thoughtful and patient parents. I'm glad you liked the poem. I have a son, too (no daughter), but I came across the poem after my little guy face-planted off of a tall chair (after I asked him not to sit on it, of course) and it was exactly what I needed to read. And thank you for listening to Oblivion!