I have been listening to a lot of (many versions of) Eyes Of The World (a Grateful Dead song, natch). A really intense and fast one from 1978 (Red Rocks Amphitheatre July 7th) and a really slow jazzy one by Dead & Co. from last summer in particular – but all kinds.
The words, written by Robert Hunter — who was not in the band, but was a frequent lyrical collaborator — are supposed to have some sort of Buddhist awakening message, but I think I’ve gotten into them from a parenting perspective. Children being the ultimate experiencers, fresh with promise, so innocent of everything — including their own feelings which, at once deeply authentic and coming and going like the weather, they express in unsure imitations of other people — that they don’t really understand either their internal world or the outside world. Desperately needing guidance, but barely capable of receiving it, in the end you’re left exhausted and wondering what your standing to guide anyone is anyway.
“Eyes” evokes in me the kind of fundamental (and I mean fundamental, as in “what are feelings, what are thoughts, what is life”) guidance I’d like to give, but they’re three and zero years old, and I don’t know is it possible to guide anyone in that anyway. So let me just write down my thoughts, in [bracketed italics] about the lyrics before I forget them. If you want to follow along, that ‘78 Eyes is here (just click on it in the playlist). Go loud!
[First, there’s a beautiful bit of scene-setting.]
Right outside this lazy summer home
you don’t have time to call your soul a critic, no
Right outside the lazy gate of winter’s summer home
wondering where the nuthatch winters
wings a mile long just carried the bird away
[The first line makes me think it’s my home we’re outside, in the garden, in summer, on holiday. An uncritical, open setting. Why, then don’t I have *time* to call my soul a critic – and does that imply that my soul *is* a critic? I think so. The soul is critical, but I don’t silence it or challenge it. That would lead to nothing, and be a waste of time.
Then, “Right outside the lazy gate of winter’s summer home”. What’s a lazy gate? In summer, winter is surely on holiday. Or in the southern hemisphere? Winter is that which drives birds to migrate. Some things exclude each other, but they can still wonder about one another.]
Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world
but the heart has its beaches its homeland and thoughts of its own
Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings
but the heart has its seasons, its evenings and songs of its own
[Wake up = become more conscious, notice your feelings, focus your mind. You will find out that in your life, you are the unique locus of experience but also part of the world. Your world “sees itself” through you, and in experiencing the world, you make it exist.
But the heart has its beaches its homeland and thoughts of its own = you also have a world inside you that is not in the same way a part of the world.
You are the song that the morning brings = you are a bringer of happiness, a creation of the world, a new start.
But the heart has its seasons, its evenings and songs of its own = but you’re not in control, your self-creation and unpredictable change will continue indefinitely.]
There comes a redeemer
and he slowly too fades away
There follows a wagon behind him
that’s loaded with clay
And the seeds that were silent
all burst into bloom and decay
The night comes so quiet
and it’s close on the heels of the day
[There comes a redeemer and he slowly too fades away – I think this is something like inspiration, insight, excitement. Or some sort of big idea you commit yourself to. It comes, and it’s important, but it doesn’t last forever. The wagon loaded with clay could be the mundane. The whole thing is like an inversion of creation: the world is made of clay, and is preceded by a redeemer.
The seeds that were silent = While you were excited by the big thing, smaller things were waiting inside. Perhaps they were planted in the mundane clay. They burst into bloom and decay (everything ends, and the cycle starts again).
The night comes so quiet = endings come unannounced and you might only notice them when they’ve already happened.]
Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world
but the heart has its beaches its homeland and thoughts of its own
Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings
but the heart has its seasons, its evenings and songs of its ownSometimes we live no particular way but our own
Sometimes we visit your country and live in your home
Sometimes we ride on your horses
Sometimes we walk alone
Sometimes the songs that we hear are just songs of our own
[In some situations you’re an individual
In others you’re groupish or depend on other people
When you get to benefit from the world around you, that’s powerful
Sometimes you’ll go the other way and it’s harder
It’s hard to tell what’s coming to you from the outside vs. the inside
(I should have been a poet..)]
Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world
but the heart has its beaches its homeland and thoughts of its own
Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings
but the heart has its seasons, its evenings and songs of its own
And of course, just because I can’t explain this to my children doesn’t mean we can’t party!
