The saying, \u201cthat\u2019s music to my ears,\u201d usually speaks of something good.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere, honey, I\u2019ll take that screaming kid off your hand.\u201d<\/em> \u2013Music to my ears.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere\u2019s a free cinnamon roll with your coffee.\u201d<\/em> \u2013Music to my ears.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere\u2019s your tax refund.\u201d<\/em> \u2013MUSIC TO MY EARS.<\/p>\n

But doesn\u2019t it also imply the music is something you\u2019d choose? You wouldn\u2019t skip past it on Pandora. You might even make a Spotify playlist. Country music is NOT music to my ears. Give me Mumford or Wilco or U2. Give me Paul Simon or Van Morrison or Hugh Laurie (yes, he sings the blues). Do not give me Kenny Chesney. Do not sneak Carrie Underwood on to my list.<\/p>\n

Maybe it\u2019s because I grew up in Nashville. It\u2019s hard to live in the Country Music capital and not get a little sick of the hype. It wasn\u2019t always this way. Back in junior high we were all about the bonfires and pickup trucks and Tim McGraw. The boys thought Faith Hill was dreamy. I even took a \u201cHistory of Country Music\u201d class in college to try to bring back that spark. But somewhere down the line though, I just couldn\u2019t take it anymore. I needed out.<\/p>\n

And then I had Charlie at thirty weeks and we lived in the neonatal intensive care for ten weeks after that. And somehow I found myself tuning in to the oldies but goodies. I\u2019d let Travis Tritt tell me \u201cIt\u2019s a Great Day to Be Alive\u201d while cleaning Charlie\u2019s empty nursery. I\u2019d sing \u201cJolene\u201d with Dolly while driving my mini cooler of breastmilk to the hospital. And I\u2019d really crank up Alan’s \u201cChasing That Neon Rainbow\u201d when I was home alone with the dog, missing my husband and my baby.<\/p>\n

I remember one Sunday, Jody and I were driving together to the NICU and he looked at askance when all the buttons on my radio were pulling up country. I tried to explain it, to put into words the weird way twang had come back in my life. It certainly wasn’t the subject matter…<\/p>\n

We\u2019ve all heard the joke:<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you get when you play country music backwards?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cYou get back your wife, your dog, and your truck.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

It was the emotion, the nostalgia, the need to connect to something deep in my roots. I did not want to feel cast adrift in oxygen and heart rate statistics and milliliters of milk consumed and apnea spells. I just wanted something close to the earth. That\u2019s what country music did. It grounded me, rooted me, when I felt like I would float away. It helped me hold onto myself.<\/p>\n

When we finally, eight weeks in, decided to have Charlie undergo the tracheotomy that would put a hole in his neck which would leave him almost mute and unable to take a real bath until he was almost two…but would also set him free from the NICU and bring him home to us, I let Garth talk about \u201cFriends in Low Places\u201d and I prayed and I let the music make me smile and ramp up my southern accent. I let the voices of these ghosts from the past woo me back to myself despite the fears of the kind of mother I would need to be. And it worked enough for that little lift I needed to get me through.<\/p>\n

Somewhere in the last four years, my country music love affair puttered out. I think as I met and befriended myself in my role as mother, my soul didn\u2019t need the same kind of soothing. Maybe life just got louder with the normal sounds of three crazy kids. What did it matter how the radio stations were programmed, when Elmo was always on anyway?<\/p>\n

And yet\u2026whenever I find myself having a really bad day, I take the long way home, veto all objections, and turn the dial. I let those southern melodies wash over me again. And I am made anew.<\/p>\n

Here\u2019s to the things that bring us back to ourselves\u2026<\/p>\n