Do you know that I generally don't like music? When I tell people that, it's as if I've said I don't like babies and also one of my hobbies is kicking puppies.
Sometimes if I'm driving, I listen to songs on the radio, though I usually prefer NPR. At times, I find myself listening to the soundtrack of my childhood—the Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, Cat Stevens, a handful of others—on repeat. Sometimes I listen to hymns or classical music or chanting or Senegalese or Turkish or French music while I am working. I keep the volume very, very low.
There are new songs I like, too, because I really love dancing. This is one of them:
And there are others. I keep a list of them, saved in my email, so when we have a dance party, I can remember to make a playlist of them. The email is called "Songs I Like."
But for the most time, I live in silence or I live with the news. I don't know why I have a hard time with music. I think that, like certain smells, because I'm un-used to it, I have trouble with it. I find myself emotionally all tied up in it when I'm meant to be working or relaxing or talking to friends. The first time I cried at a song was listening to "Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road" alone on the floor of my room with my boombox in third grade. I'm an old soul, friends. It's only gotten worse from there.