Some people have dreamt up ways to travel into the past or future. In movies and books we see people using cars, phone booths, and Time-Turners, to name a few. Others are actively looking for a way. They appeal to science and magic, hoping that they will find ways to transport our bodies to events that took place long ago, so that we can witness (and maybe even change) the course of history.
Some people think that time-travel is impossible. But I know a way—a way that is quick and accessible, ready for me almost anytime and anywhere. By accident I have discovered that the simple power of a song can catapult me into the past. I’ll be scrolling through lists of songs in the search of an old favorite, and suddenly, without warning, I am flung into the projects, the classes, the places and the feelings of the past as if I’d never left that time, that place, that moment…
Freshmen year. Bio, room 208. Cellular respiration and DNA replication and gametes and zygotes. My Making of You project. Duckweed. Love for science, passion for the study of life and cells and tiny, tiny proteins and enzymes that know what to do—how? Wonder at God, at the beautifully complex world he created, and grateful for the chance to explore it.
The summer before freshman year. My garage. The street in front of my neighbor’s hoop, the best in the neighborhood. Balancing a basketball against my hip. Getting hit in the gut with the ball when it bounces off the curb. Practicing, so I can amount to something this year. So I can get better, make the team and play. Frustration when the ball won’t go in. Using the drill Coach McBride taught me, so that I can have the best shot of anyone on our team.
Golf season, sophomore year. Here for the ride. A little confused, a little surprised, definitely impressed. Feeling fancy wearing a skirt with my bag of clubs slung across my back and visor pulled low. Hitting the ball into the water seven times in a row during the state championship. My 8-iron. Who knew I’d be here, on the putting green, competing in an actual golf tournament? It’s not quite real, but it is quite a bit of fun. The deep (though for me, somewhat rare) satisfaction of a good shot is a wonderful feeling, but the true joy lies in spending time with my two friends who got me into this sport in the first place.
6 o’clock in the morning. Frantically compiling last pieces of much-needed evidence. Printing (or in some desperate cases, finishing writing) my speeches. Flipping the pages for our manual duplex printer. Stapling. Running around in my fancy clothes and heels. Dreading the tournament but anticipating the win. Checking and double-checking that I have everything: speeches, evidence, paper, pen, extra pen, water bottle, phone… The stress before a debate tournament is worth the good ballots (and maybe even an award!) once it’s done.
All of these moments are propelled into my head each time I hear a specific song. They’re an insight to my younger self, the me who loved one song at a time so much that her most prominent emotions would seep into it until it was soaked so thoroughly that its stains would bring her back years later. These songs are a time-travel device for the mind, one that is reserved for personal use and for the personal timeline, bringing me back to moments that only I will ever be able to truly experience. The hidden power of a formerly favorite song is far superior to any other time-travel device I know.
Some people think that time-travel is impossible. But I know a way—a way that is quick and accessible, ready for me almost anytime and anywhere. By accident I have discovered that the simple power of a song can catapult me into the past. I’ll be scrolling through lists of songs in the search of an old favorite, and suddenly, without warning, I am flung into the projects, the classes, the places and the feelings of the past as if I’d never left that time, that place, that moment…
Freshmen year. Bio, room 208. Cellular respiration and DNA replication and gametes and zygotes. My Making of You project. Duckweed. Love for science, passion for the study of life and cells and tiny, tiny proteins and enzymes that know what to do—how? Wonder at God, at the beautifully complex world he created, and grateful for the chance to explore it.
The summer before freshman year. My garage. The street in front of my neighbor’s hoop, the best in the neighborhood. Balancing a basketball against my hip. Getting hit in the gut with the ball when it bounces off the curb. Practicing, so I can amount to something this year. So I can get better, make the team and play. Frustration when the ball won’t go in. Using the drill Coach McBride taught me, so that I can have the best shot of anyone on our team.
Golf season, sophomore year. Here for the ride. A little confused, a little surprised, definitely impressed. Feeling fancy wearing a skirt with my bag of clubs slung across my back and visor pulled low. Hitting the ball into the water seven times in a row during the state championship. My 8-iron. Who knew I’d be here, on the putting green, competing in an actual golf tournament? It’s not quite real, but it is quite a bit of fun. The deep (though for me, somewhat rare) satisfaction of a good shot is a wonderful feeling, but the true joy lies in spending time with my two friends who got me into this sport in the first place.
6 o’clock in the morning. Frantically compiling last pieces of much-needed evidence. Printing (or in some desperate cases, finishing writing) my speeches. Flipping the pages for our manual duplex printer. Stapling. Running around in my fancy clothes and heels. Dreading the tournament but anticipating the win. Checking and double-checking that I have everything: speeches, evidence, paper, pen, extra pen, water bottle, phone… The stress before a debate tournament is worth the good ballots (and maybe even an award!) once it’s done.
All of these moments are propelled into my head each time I hear a specific song. They’re an insight to my younger self, the me who loved one song at a time so much that her most prominent emotions would seep into it until it was soaked so thoroughly that its stains would bring her back years later. These songs are a time-travel device for the mind, one that is reserved for personal use and for the personal timeline, bringing me back to moments that only I will ever be able to truly experience. The hidden power of a formerly favorite song is far superior to any other time-travel device I know.
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