There is a small magnetic whiteboard on my refrigerator. The white plastic apparatus, clinging by electromagnetic magic to the fingerprint smudged stainless steel veneer, catches my eye every time I turn on my lights in the morning. The whiteboard has become a beacon, a challenge, and a reminder of things to think about I didn’t know I should consider.

Why? Because my future son-in-law puts quotes on the board and leaves them there. Sometimes I see him writing them. Other times I’m surprised with a new message. But they’re always powerful; they’re full of the angst and strength of young lovers and budding poets and young men and women discovering the world. They remind me of the troubadours of the High Middle Ages. And, they remind me that humans are passionate…that I should take care with the souls of those whom fate has placed in my family on Earth.

Oftentimes the quotes are from one of his favorite bands, La Dispute. I remember getting a call late one evening after having already been asleep about forty-five minutes or so. It was one of my children. “Mom! La Dispute needs a place to stay tonight and I thought maybe they could come to our house!? Is that okay?” Perhaps you parents know the feeling of being awakened by a child who has no sense of the deep sleep you were enjoying, but then realizing you only have children once? “Yes, that’s fine. I guess. How many ARE there?” An hour later I woke for a moment to hear doors opening, directions being given for ‘how to get to the bathrooms, where the blankets were, etc.’

When I woke up the next morning, I walked into a living room covered with eleven young male bodies, fully clothed, sleeping soundly. Their ages were approximately 20-28. I looked at Mick and said, “You want to run to Braums and get milk and eggs? We’re going to need more groceries in order to cook breakfast.” I think we fed seventeen people that morning and they were out of the house within about an hour after we cleaned up the dishes, on their way to the next town. I smiled when they began debating over whether or not they should stop at Pops on Route 66 to get more soda because it was ‘such a cool place.’ When I watched them leave that morning, I never really thought of them as troubadours.

But they are. Later when I looked up their lyrics online I was surprised. They were intense, poetic, warrior-like at times, occasionally political…full of life, zest and love. I was glad I cooked them breakfast, and said a silent prayer for their safety. These boys had a lot to sing about, and a lot more to write before they were done.

A troubadour was a male (there were also female “trobairitz”) composer and/or musician who was frequently commissioned to write about Love. Life. Politics. Sadness. Happiness…etc. Their lyrics were many times powerful or provocative. I’ve included an example at the end of the post. However, there has been “troubadour-like” figures throughout history. Solomon wrote “The Song of Solomon” and many wieldy romantic and emotional passages (whether metaphors of God wooing his creation, or literal messages to a young lover or bride) can be found in the book:

When I think about those with whom I interact on a daily basis, the first word that pops into my head is never ‘troubadour.’ In fact, here in the Midwest, and certainly in Red Dirt Country, there’s much to be said for a more reserved demeanor. Passion and abandon is often associated with youth or with artists, but I think what I would like to propose in this post is that there just might be a little troubadour (or trobairitz) in all of us. And, you might surprise yourself, or a person you love, with an expression of passion, poetry, music or other literary or artistic gesture this upcoming Valentine’s Day. If you’re comfortable, fine. But what if you become just a little uncomfortable, a little more passionate, and a little extra romantic with your wooing? Who knows what might happen during this season of love? I say…risk it. After all, if you read my refrigerator today, then you would be questioned by that whiteboard…it’s wondering, “Don’t you want to know all the love you’ve got?”

[kelly]

For your guilty, artistic, musical and literary pleasures I’ve included a few examples of current and historical works by troubadours over history. I hope you enjoy some of them as much as I did finding them for you. I’ve tried to include examples all the way from LaDisupute, to George Straight, to Andy White ~ a Celtic who actually wrote a book entitled, “21st Century Troubadour.” Love….Kelly

Lyrics to “Said The King To The River” (By LaDispute) :

[excerpt only] “And how we’ve trembled at the way that time’s

assembled little fires of desire in the tundra of our skin.

So, do yourself a little favor, savor every time you waver

for that shaking in my voice was only slyly feigned chagrin.

Tonight we ride.” “Oh, Lover, uncover. I know it’s warm beneath your sheets

and there is ice along the streets but listen—Lover, we will recover.

But we’ve no time to waste with meddling in affairs

we’ve locked so tightly in our dreams.

We are not clean, we are not pure, we can not rest until we’re sure.

So, rob your pretty little eyes of sleep’s disguise.

I’m at your bedside with a bucket full of lies.

So, clear your ears and listen— Up, M’Lady–Pack your things, this place is not your home. But I know what is.” And to the glorious past: You’ve opened my window but broken the glass.

And I beseech thee, ‘shed thy beauty.’

For as a child leaves the womb and learns the cold,

you have taught us perils in the present,

and you will bring us peril in our surely-soon-to-be. Unless… The river’s not flooded this time. Oh, Precious Distance,

Oh, Precious Pain,

You’ve given me a name. And

Etched it in the stones of the river bank. Oh, Precious Distance,

Oh, Precious Pain,

You’ve given us a name. You’ve

Given us a name. “Rise!” Said the King to the River,

“Never let up! No, bring us a flood and bring it hard!”

“Freeze!” Said the Wind to the Water,

“Never give in! No, build us a bridge!

And build it strong and angry.

Let it stills the King’s decree.

Oh, you must contemplate the current,

Boy, and command that coward cease.

The boy breathes for his love says, ‘I wait.’

His love says, ‘I wait.’

She’s shouting out, “I will come back. Yes, I will come back!

I will come—I have lived my life so uncomfortably. Darling, come for me.

Come for me.” Rumi (1207-1273) Mathnavi I.109: Love is longing and longing, the pain of being parted;

No illness is rich enough for the distress of the heart,

A lover’s lament surpasses all other cries of pain.

Love is the royal threshold to God’s mystery.

The carnival of small affections and polite attachments

Which litter and consume our passing time

Is no match to Love which pulses behind this play.

It’s easy to talk endlessly about Love,

To live Love is to be seized by joy and bewilderment;

Love is not clear-minded, busy with images and argument.

Language is too precocious, too impudent, too sane

To stop the molten lava of Love which churns the blood,

This practicing energy burns the tongue to silence;

The knowing pen is disabled, servile paper

Shrivels in the fire of Love. Bald reason too is an ass

Explaining Love, deceived by spoilt lucidity.

Love is dangerous offering no consolation,

Only those who are ravaged by Love know Love,

The sun alone unveils the sun to those who have

The sense to receive the senseless and not turn away.

Cavernous shadows need the light to play but light

And light alone can lead you to the light alone.

Material shadows weigh down your vision with dross,

But the rising sun splits the ashen moon in empty half.

The outer sun is our daily miracle in timely

Birth and death, the inner sun

Dazzles the inner eye in a timeless space.

Our daily sun is but a working star in a galaxy of stars,

Our inner sun is One, the dancing nuance of eternal light.

You must be set alight by the inner sun,

You have to live your Love or else

You’ll only end in words. (tr. R. Abdulla) The Persian word for “sun” is “Shams,” which is also the name of Rumi’s beloved. George Strait – thinking of his young troubadour days, and swearing he’ll be one ’till he dies: Andy White, musician and author of “21st Century Troubadour” singing about the political situation of his Belfast upbringing:

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