Two hours into our paddle on the Napali Wes and I rallied each other in song. Many mumbled choruses later, we had to admit we didn’t know all the lyrics to a single song outside of nursery rhymes. “You listen
Two hours into our paddle on the Napali Wes and I rallied each other in song. Many mumbled choruses later, we had to admit we didn’t know all the lyrics to a single song outside of nursery rhymes.
“You listen to Bob Marley daily,” I complained from the front seat of our two-man kayak. “Sing something off ‘Legend.’”
He’d sing a few lines: “Rise up this mornin’, smiled with the risin’ sun, three little birds, by my doorstep; singin’ sweet songs of melodies pure and true — singin’ this is my message to you-ou-ou.”
Then he’d trail off. Stall. Hum a few more lines, and launch into the chorus. I didn’t do much better and could only remember bits of sea shanties sung to me as a child. There wasn’t even a show tune I could recall in its entirety.
We paddled the next two hours to Mililii blurting out snippets of half-remembered songs.
About 20 years ago I made a New Year’s resolution to memorize a poem a month. I only made it to April. In graduate school I’d attend readings where most the poets read their work. I remember vividly the ones who would recite from memory — the experience much more engaging.
At a dinner party not long ago, a guest raised his glass to toast, then delivered a beautiful poem. Everyone at the table roared with delight when he was done. It’s rare when someone can recite something lovely and suitable to the occasion.
Paddling that day on the Napali made me realize this vast laziness that has settled over my brain. My thoughts have grown redundant and depressed. I want to interrupt that negative flow with something gorgeous, so once again I’ll attempt to memorize poems.
As a kid my dad was involved in community theatre and my three sisters and I loved running lines with him. We’d be sprawled out on our parents’ king sized bed with my dad parading around the room reciting his lines.
Later in life I would visit my folks in Chula Vista and be up at sunrise with my dad. We’d sit together over coffee in relative silence just enjoying the stillness of the hour. He’d be leaning back in his cane chair wearing a thick burgundy robe — his slipper dangling from the top of his bobbing foot — over his lap the sports section of the San Diego Union-Tribune waiting its turn to be read. In his hands a book of Psalms. His lips would move a little as he read quietly to himself.
I never fully appreciated this daily meditation. It was just what my dad did and I found it sweet. It didn’t occur to me then how this ritual would ultimately serve him.
Mom told me that right before going into surgery for the removal of a brain tumor Dad recited a favorite Psalm for her.
Songs, poems and prayers — tonic for headwinds, celebrations and exits.
• Pam Woolway is the lifestyle writer at The Garden Island. Her column “Being there” appears every other week.
