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Simon and Garfunkel's "The Dangling Conversation" and "Flowers Never Bend with the Rainfall."

Earlier this week, I discussed the fear of loss. The cruel reality that, in order to experience love, one must accept its inevitable end. This is an inherently bittersweet truth, made even more bitter by the fact that when that love ends, we don’t know what happens to it. It simply dies, ceases to exist. But where does something go when it ceases to exist? The law of conservation of energy states that energy cannot be created or destroyed, merely changed. Somehow, the idea of a great love turning into something else entirely seems even more tragic than it simply disappearing.

When I think about love’s dreadful end, I imagine it ending in death. Spouses spending a beautiful lifetime together only to be ripped apart by the unfeeling hands of time, or even worse, young lovers pried apart too soon, in tragedy. These are both horrific fates, at least if you focus on the outcome and not the journey, and what they have in common is that they depict a love that burns out all at once, while it is still strong. But explosions only occur when a transformation is sudden, and some loves instead flicker out slowly, without any drama.

One of my favorite albums of all time is Simon and Garfunkel’s 1966 album Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme. It is a masterpiece. It starts and ends with traditional folk songs (comfort, with a little bit of a twist), and the songs in between depict the deepest joys and sorrows, somber musings, playful fun—it’s incredible, the range of emotions captured in this little thirty-minute collection of songs. I urge you to listen to the whole thing, but there are two songs that are particularly important: “The Dangling Conversation,” and “Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall.”

The first time I listened to “The Dangling Conversation,” it brought me close to tears. I was taking a walk with my dog, at around 4:15 pm on a fall afternoon. The darkest time of the year. The trees around me had reached peak foliage, and the sunset before me was at its peak as well. I normally find the scenery of my neighborhood extremely dull. Block after block of connected brick houses and cracked beige sidewalks with small strips of patchy grass next to them—it’s a small neighborhood, but one that’s easy to get lost in, because everything looks exactly the same. But that day, surrounded by the orange-red of fall and the pinks and reds and yellows and magentas of the sky, it felt vibrant. Picturesque, even. The album was my walk’s soundtrack; I had fallen asleep on it the night before, and was excited to hear the whole thing.“The 59th Street Bridge Song” had just finished playing, and it was calm and optimistic, the perfect accompaniment to a meditative walk. I was enjoying my walk, looking up at the sky and walking purposefully, as though I could eventually reach the sunset. Then, the first line of “The Dangling Conversation”:

It’s a still life watercolor of a now late afternoon.

I think about “synchronicity” a lot. Meaningful coincidences that are not really coincidences. The universe speaking to you in some way. I try not to discount moments like this, and, at that particular moment, I was starved for some beauty. And then right as I was starting to see it, right when I realized that maybe there was something special to see even in the copy-and-paste brick labyrinth I reluctantly called home, right when I remarked to myself that the entire scene looked like a painting, with the red of the bricks actually complementing nature’s fiery hue, I heard that lyric. The song had my attention. I was all in, ready for the universe’s message, for the peace and the joy I that was already feeling to be multiplied tenfold. Ready for happiness, to love the world whole-heartedly. But then the song threw me for a loop. It was the saddest song I had ever heard.

And I only kiss your shadow,

I cannot feel your hand.

You’re a stranger now unto me.

A love grown stale.

I’m not going to attempt to describe the song to you. You can’t paraphrase a poem. It’s under three minutes long—listen to it. But I am going to say that it introduced to me a new fear, one that might rival my other greatest fear. Because the only thing more terrifying than love being abruptly torn from me is having it slowly fade right before me, too gradually to notice, until one day there is no emotion left, just the two of us, trapped in a house that used to be a home next to the person that we used to love. At least if the person dies, you can believe that love is eternal, that the person that you adored with every ounce of your soul will be waiting for you on the other side. But what if your love changes form right in front of you? What will you tell yourself then?

Yes, we speak of things that matter,

With words that must be said.

“Can analysis be worthwhile?”

“Is the theater really dead?”

Oh, the subtle irony of this. “We speak of things that matter.” I had reached this point, at one time in my life. Spouting what I thought was “important” and “profound,” what made me feel smart, but without actually meaning anything. Without actually feeling anything. Just words that sounded good to my soulless ears. It wasn’t a consequence of love going stale, but life itself growing stale. There is hope for life. Could there be hope for love, too?

At this point on my walk, I was despaired. The song that I expected to boost me out of my rut seemed to instead push me right back into it. It terrified me. That couple in the song—their love wasn’t any less real than mine just because it didn’t last. How do you know where you’re fated to end up? It seemed like a cruel joke, to be cursed to live my life knowing that tragedy could be just around the corner.

Then, the next song came on. A response to the exact emotion I was feeling.

So I’ll continue to continue to pretend

My life will never end

And flowers never bend with the rainfall.

The music was happier. Everything felt lighter. The song still addressed the terrifying realities of life, but it did so joyfully. It was a song about acceptance. Perspective.

I’m blinded by the light

Of God and truth and right

And I wander in the night without direction.

A song that says it’s okay to be confused, to not know where you are going or what is going to happen next. A song about accepting the harsh truths of life, and loving it anyway. My steps started feeling a little lighter, bouncier. I took this as comfort, it was good enough. I had my answer. You can’t change life’s harsh truths, and if you fight them, you miss all of its joys, too. Like the sunset before me, ablaze with color. Sunsets are always the most colorful when the days get shorter, when the sun hides by five o’clock and the world is dreary.

This is a special album, and these two songs are its peak. They illustrate the reality of life—show you its greatest tragedies, and then assure you that everything will be okay. They urge you to love, and to live. And, whether this was intentional or not, they truly embody life’s balance. “Flowers Never Bend Without the Rainfall” would not have hit quite as hard without its melancholic predecessor priming me for its message. The song is not as powerful on its own; it needs the sadness of “The Dangling Conversation” before it. It needs you to feel down in order to lift you up. Happiness would not exist without sadness. Everything would just be flat. Nothing.