Some of the biggest victories of our lives will come from how we deal with intense disappointment. Dealing with it while not losing hope or becoming jaded or cynical. Mourning without getting permanently bitter, and then getting back up again and moving on. Finding some miraculous way to make a struggle into something that somehow isn’t just soul crushing. Seeing it as something that has meaning in a deeply personal way. Or maybe even just living through it. I don’t care what anyone says. That’s victory.

Maybe you’re thinking, “That’s great, Cherie. But if we’re calling this a victory, where’s the fanfare? Where’s my picture on a Wheaties box? What? No medal for simply not disintegrating?” And I have to admit I can’t entirely fix that. But here’s a song. If in the end you can still sing this chorus, you’re going to be okay. Happy Monday. Stronger Than I Was Before

Go ahead and click on that link, and I’ll give you my usual disclaimer that this is another one of my “homeless songs”, and if you’ve been following my blog you’ll know that usually means I recorded it myself in my basement and so when you realize how raw and pitchy this is, remember that. Think of it as me playing it for you in my living room right after I get it done and while I’m still figuring the whole thing out.

I’ve always thought that songs were interesting metaphors for my beliefs about the phases human beings go through in the process of existence. I’m sure the same kinds of things come up in math and science. God leaves His fingerprints everywhere. But I don’t know a lot about those things. I know about songs.

I believe I have always existed in some form. The matter that makes up my spirit and body has always been out there. It just continues to go through advancing degrees of organization. I believe a song is the same way. Every song consists of musical notes that have always existed.

Even after my body dies, even if it crumbles to dust, I will continue to exist, and I believe that one day I will regain a body in the next life that will never die. 

When a song is written, labor takes place. Those spirit melodies come to someone’s mind. That person wrestles with them and organizes them. Eventually a song is created. It is sung or played out loud. It becomes something people can hear, sing, and remember. Sometimes it is written down or recorded. But even if that paper or computer hard drive burns to ashes, that song will never un-exist. It will live on forever. Even after all of us die. You can’t take a favorite necklace with you after you die. You can’t keep your house or your car. But I believe that when you die, you will remember the songs that you cherished. You will be able to sing them forever. You don’t have to have them encased in gold and included in your Egyptian tomb.

All of that may be a bit intense for this blog. But it’s something I’ve always thought about. Songs have always seemed to me to be a lot like people.

I was thinking one day about songs that most people will never know. What must it be like for a song, when few people will ever sing along? Does it affect how good or bad it is? Or are there absolutely stunning songs being written every day that no one will ever hear? If a song were a person, how would it feel?

I realized that at times I know exactly how it would feel.

If a song is written in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound? And if so, does it even matter?

I’ve been sharing some of my “homeless songs” on this blog. Songs with no concrete future home on any album or project. One day I realized that I might sometimes feel a little bit like one of those homeless songs, as I keep trying to figure out my purpose in this life. Especially on the toughest days when I’m tempted to doubt myself and the meaning of it all.

I’m going to share with you a song I wrote, called “I Am A Homeless Song.”

Let’s chop down this tree in the deep dark depths of the songwriting forest. Whether it matters or not. And by the way, I think it does matter.

Listen here: I Am A Homeless Song
Disclaimer: This is a demo, and is therefore a little rough. We’re all friends here.