I think there is a beauty within irony that is easily avoided and ignored.
In every area of my life, I try to create songs. There is a lot of silent seeking done in order for me to be at peace with a melody that I discover, or words that weigh on my heart. I’ve noticed recently, though, as certain things cripple in my life and memories try to secure themselves in places where I have fought to rid them, the songs that I am able to sing are a bit ironic.
It’s instinctual for me to look at my life as I look at a song. There should always be a sweet melody, something to dance to, something to sing to, something appealing and enticing and right in every way. But life isn’t entirely like that.
Through recent attempts to paint better pictures of how the Lord and I converse, I began to realize that I’m not meant to be a certain melodic beauty that can captivate a heart or two. I can very clearly picture huge things being thrown at me, and I know I’m supposed to chop away at these things until I reach the core. There is a joy deep within the most ironic and seemingly twisted parts of life that Jesus has been showing me, and it comes from nowhere else.
When allowing my hands to communicate this on guitar, I fell short. I felt like there was something pulling me back, repeatedly. Much like the chopping that has been speaking for me, when I’ve lost words. And so, I’m left with the image of the woodpecker. It whistles no perfect little tune, but rather drums it into a tree again and again. I feel like God is crafting a lot of situations in which I’m supposed to sing like a woodpecker instead of some graceful bird.
Here are the words to the song (which is down below), since I’m kind of hard to understand in this recording. I hope the words I’ve written mean something to somebody.
The Woodpecker’s Song
There’s an old woodpecker
who gave his song to me
he told me to tear down the houses
but savor the trees
Now I come heavy and lonesome
with a ringing to cling to
it falls simple and sweet like the song
that was given to me
Hallowed, hollow but living
broken with golden seams
nothing is as it seems
So I tore down the houses
that held all my memories
to comfort the ache in my bones
the splintered wood of an oak tree
And when I hear knocking
there is no door to be locked
only leaves to be turning
and a woodpecker’s thoughts
Hallowed, hollow but living
broken with golden seams
nothing is as it seems
Hallowed, hollow but living
broken with golden seams
nothing is as it seems
painted so brilliantly
And when I’m failing to climb
and falling down has taken all my time
I let that old woodpecker chime
over me
– Rachel