Can we ever really inhabit another person’s life? In books, some might say. But in real life, the answer is no. And I suppose a follow-up question would be, Why would we want to? Hmmm…let’s think about that.
Being a writer means constantly observing, constantly trying to figure out the way people operate, live, feel, love, and move through the world. Most of the time, you don’t realize you’re doing it. It’s not a compulsion exactly; it’s more like a subconscious program running in the background. To some, this might sound like a nightmare, but it’s fascinating to me because the curiosity never stops; I’m always asking internal questions, always trying to find my way to the core of a character.
If we can’t inhabit another person, perhaps the best (and most supportive) thing we can do is bear witness to their life. Good friends are like this: they see us. They know where we’ve been, and how far we’ve come. They don’t meddle (unless absolutely necessary, and thank goodness when they do). They stand nearby, and with a nod, seem to say, “yes, I saw that, too” and “yes, I remember.”
In mid-March, I had the unique opportunity to witness a different kind of life. For one week, I toured through northern Germany with the band, Madison Violet. Jake has been playing and touring with them for the past nine years, and it has always been a dream of mine to tag along for a bit.
Madison Violet is a Juno-nominated, folk/rock/singer-songwriter (but how do you even define music these days?) duo, made up of Lisa MacIsaac and Brenley MacEachern. If you haven’t listened to their music before, I highly recommend starting now. Their latest album, eleven, is truly beautiful. It’s their eleventh album, and they recorded and produced it themselves, all in an Airstream trailer that they converted into a studio during the pandemic.
Not only are Lisa and Brenley incredible musicians and wonderful human beings, but they’re also gifted storytellers. I have a strong sense that it’s their ability to put story to music—to be vulnerable, open, and honest about their experiences—that makes them such impactful artists.
I met up with them in Berlin, of all places, where I reconnected with friends, visited our old neighbourhood and bakery, and had dinner at our family’s favourite restaurant. It was bizarre to be back, without the kids this time, walking around with such familiarity and yet such distance. Did this really happen? I thought to myself, knowing my way as I walked the streets of Charlottenburg and Wilmersdorf.
And, for the first time in my adult life, I spent a week where I didn’t know the plan, had no idea where we were eating or sleeping, or in which direction we were headed next. Coming from a certified planner (aka bossy-first-born-daughter-control-issues-person), may I just say, it was glorious. I stared out the window from the front seat of the van as Jake drove us from town to town. Sometimes we talked, but mostly I sat quietly, appreciating the rolling hills of Saxony, spotting distant towns, the church spires reaching upwards, and then later, admiring the green landscape of Brandenburg. We travelled to the north-eastern most point of Germany, Ueckermünde, and walked along the shore of the Baltic Sea. Then we drove west through Schleswig-Holstein en route to an elegant suburb of Hamburg.
During this week, the part of my brain that constantly calculates logistics and anticipates next steps (and which sometimes imagines catastrophes) miraculously shut off. What took its place, you ask? I’m not sure, but I do know that I felt settled, calm, and cared for. And when that mental buzzing stops, there is more space to let other things come in.
For example, I worked the merch table for nearly every show (the venues were bustling and energetic, most nights sold out), and I got to hear the fans’ stories about what Madison Violet’s music means to them. During the shows, I witnessed the crowd’s reaction to the music and to each other: there was warmth, community, connection, emotion, sing-alongs, and some spontaneous dancing. It was all so moving to me.
Over the past year, as I’ve been working on my professional development leave project, I’ve been thinking a lot about what happens when we share our stories. There is a tendency to believe that we are alone in our experiences, and this belief leads to isolation and disconnection.
At every performance, Lisa and Brenley share their stories; many are those of pain, loss, and heartbreak. And yet, hearing these narratives doesn’t make us sad, exactly. While we may feel the pain of the story, the overall effect is something else: recognition. We recognize parts of ourselves in these stories and this helps us feel part of something wider, kinder, and more inclusive. It is an antidote to loneliness.
In her dark and moving memoir, This is Happy, Camilla Gibb writes this about storytelling:
Being able to put your experiences into a narrative gives meaning to the life you have lived. It can allow you to make sense of the things that have seemed the most senseless and cruel by providing some context—even if that context is nothing more than this: it didn’t kill me. I am alive to tell this tale. I am here, where I was once there. There is a story, possibly a universal one, of the passage between there and here.
You don’t have to be a writer or a musician to “put your experiences into a narrative.” Maybe there’s a willing listener, that trusted friend I spoke of earlier, for example; or maybe you write down your experiences in a journal. What matters most, I think, is tracing “the passage between there and here.”
In one of my first posts for this newsletter, I wrote about wanting to experience more humanness and spaciousness in my life (as opposed to feeling like I was always crossing off items on a to-do list). Touring Germany with a set of generous musicians—sharing stories, listening attentively, witnessing connection—did this for me. As has writing it all down and sharing it here with you. Thank you for reading along. I’m so very grateful.
This is the last post for Berlin for a Season. It’s meant a lot to share these stories with you over the past 10 months. Thank you for your comments, support, and kind readership.
Photo courtesy of Pavel Herceg
You, my friend are an absolute gem. I thoroughly enjoyed listening to your words here and on the road, witnessing your infectious smile throughout the day! It was truly a gift to have you join us on our tour across Germany. Your presence in the audience each night, standing by the merch table, being so warm, kind, and genuinely interested in meeting our supporters ( I’m not a fan of calling them fans.. is that my impostor syndrome acting up?) brought me immense joy!
Let’s do it again!!
Although I’m saddened that Berlin For A Season , has come to a close, I find solace in knowing you have something on the horizon that I can sink my teeth into and makes it somewhat easier to bid farewell to this particular chapter. Love you. Brenley x
Thank you for sharing your journey. I have enjoyed reading your words and being witness to your storytelling.