Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Colin Hay

Colin Hay is a very funny man. He's a musician, who plays guitar, writes spare, honest lyrics and peppers his time at the microphone with hilarious anecdotes. We've been to his shows twice and he has a way of drawing you into his stories.

He's obviously a talented musician, because he has three guitars on stage and swaps between them. They all looked the same to me, but he's good because he knows which one for each song. I think one was a twelve string guitar, but let's face it, we were at least five metres from the stage and well who can tell that stuff anyway?

He talked about sailing to Australia, from Scotland when he was fourteen years old, and that's a little of the reason my husband is a fan because he did the same thing when he was six. He told a story about having Paul McCartney over for dinner and Paul doing the dishes. Badly. And I'm sitting at the table, too, listening to Paul McCartney rinsing the crockery under the streaming tap.

He talked about becoming an alcoholic, and trying to stop drinking. He found it hard to stop here in Australia, because no one wanted to agree that he was drinking too much. Perhaps it was too confronting to their own alcohol intake. So he moved to California, and stopped drinking there. He talked about getting up and having breakfast one day, and thinking "Well. What now?" His question  embodied the deep lostness and grief of giving up what is most habitual to you. Even (perhaps especially) destructive things.

And the experience of loss and change and discovery evolved into this beautiful song.

I love that the simple act of swimming or drinking tea becomes a way to acknowledge the beauty of the world.

When I lie awake in the darkness and listen to the rain falling on the grass and the road, I can be worrying about not being asleep or anxious about tomorrow. Or I can just hear the water falling and feel the coolness of the air through the flyscreen and the slow breath in and out beside me. I can be here and awake and know the beauty of this world in the stillness of the moment. That is when prayer and miracles are possible.

PS. Linking with Emily...


Anonymous said...

Thanks Kath. That made me smile :-) love, Sal in Perth

Kath said...

Glad to hear it, my friend.

Jennifer Dougan said...


There is truth here. :)

And the quiet ending you had of listening to the rain, the wind, and the breathing in and out was peaceful to my soul.

I'm hopping over from the Imperfect Prose link up. Nice to see you again,

Jennifer Dougan

Anonymous said...

I love your hopeful words here. But I am especially holding on to the beautiful end...glorious and lovely. Filled with such grace. It's a pleasure to meet you. Visiting from em's IP

Mommy Emily said...

Kath, I always look SO forward to your posts. There is such beauty and wisdom, always. I will practice listening to the rain. Love you.