Tom Traubert's Blues

In addition to connecting about our work in the world, the colleague and friend I had coffee with yesterday also shared a tragedy from his personal life with me: His 22-year old daughter killed herself earlier this year.

Oof. I can only imagine the pain that comes with losing a child in any capacity, but to lose a child to suicide must have its own set of difficulties.

I may not know exactly what that's like, but I do know about loss. And I do know about severe depression. I know what it feels like to be separated from the best parts of yourself and not believe there is a path back, let alone be able to see it.

Up early again this morning, I can feel a heaviness in my chest. It's hard to say exactly what it's about, and I'm guessing it's a combination of old and new wounds, with a not small dose of wow-this-life-can-be-painful that I felt wash over me when I heard about my friend's daughter.

What's a girl who's alone in the house and feeling sad this cold November morning to do? Put on some Tom Waits and let the tears rip, of course:

Wasted and wounded, it ain't what the moon did, I've got what I paid for now
See you tomorrow, hey Frank, can I borrow a couple of bucks from you
To go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda,
You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me

I'm an innocent victim of a blinded alley
And I'm tired of all these soldiers here
No one speaks English, and everything's broken, and my Stacys are soaking wet
To go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda,
You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me

Now the dogs are barking and the taxi cab's parking
A lot they can do for me
I begged you to stab me, you tore my shirt open,
And I'm down on my knees tonight
Old Bushmill's I staggered, you'd bury the dagger
In your silhouette window light go
To go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda,
You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me

Now I lost my Saint Christopher now that I've kissed her
And the one-armed bandit knows
And the maverick Chinamen, and the cold-blooded signs,
And the girls down by the strip-tease shows, go
Waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda,
You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me

No, I don't want your sympathy, the fugitives say
That the streets aren't for dreaming now
And manslaughter dragnets and the ghosts that sell memories,
They want a piece of the action anyhow
Go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda,
You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me

And you can ask any sailor, and the keys from the jailor,
And the old men in wheelchairs know
And Mathilda's the defendant, she killed about a hundred,
And she follows wherever you may go
Waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda,
You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me

And it's a battered old suitcase to a hotel someplace,
And a wound that will never heal
No prima donna, the perfume is on an
Old shirt that is stained with blood and whiskey
And goodnight to the street sweepers, the night watchmen flame keepers
And goodnight to Mathilda, too

I reckon Tom's right. Some wounds will never heal. They'll ease over time, they'll wax and they'll wane, and they'll teach us just what we need to understand to bring our own best selves to the world...