Recently, our son found an old iPod that had fallen into disuse in their family. After fiddling with it a bit, he discovered that it still worked. He and our grandson loaded songs onto it, and our grandson has been using it to listen to music along with a set of headphones they also had lying around. When I see him wearing the headphones, I frequently ask him what he’s listening to. Sometimes, I recognize the artist and the song, but often, they remain a mystery to me. I trust his father and mother to pay attention to what he is listening to and don’t feel that it is my responsibility to police his listening. My reason for asking is simply curiosity and a desire to know our grandchildren's likes and artistic sensibilities.

Thinking of what a fourteen-year-old is listening to got me thinking about what I was listening to when I was his age. Listening to music was different for us in part because we often heard without having direct control over the playlist. I was an adult before the first Sony Walkman cassette tape player was released. I come from the era of radio. We listened to what the DJs chose for us to hear. And in my hometown, we could only receive AM radio. FM existed in larger population areas, but there were no FM stations whose signal reached our town. We could only receive three or four stations, limiting our choices.

We bought records. 45s and albums. I remember some sought-after bands, including The Beatles, the Animals, Jefferson Airplane, The Beach Boys, Cream, the Byrds, the Rolling Stones, the Who, the Monkeys, and the Doors. I wonder how often I played “Light My Fire” by the Doors or “Ode to Billy Joe” by Bobbie Gentry. I knew the words to “If You’re Going to San Francisco,” “Happy Together,” and “All You Need is Love.”

Some of the songs I enjoyed then continue to be popular today. Music streaming services give us access to an extensive range of music. Unlike the days when my listening was limited by the number of records I owned or the choices of the radio DJs, I now have easy access to whatever I want to hear.

I’m not sure if I first heard it when I was 14, but around that time, I got my first guitar and began to play and sing popular songs. One of the songs I learned is a song I still enjoy. I can easily recall its lyrics, but I don’t imagine singing it as I did. I hear the voice of Joni Mitchell, the musician who wrote the song.

Rows and floes of angel hair
An ice cream castles in the air
And feather anyone everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way

I will play it for my grandson. Maybe he’ll even add it to the playlist on his iPod. Joni Mitchell was in her early twenties when she wrote that song. It seems to me now that it is an expression of more maturity than she could have possessed at the time. Of course, my perspective is tempered by my age. Joni Mitchell is about a decade older than I am, and I’ve had many opportunities to hear her sing it over the years. When she showed up at the Newport Folk Festival in 2022, she sang “Both Sides Now.” The audience was mesmerized.

I’ve been singing that song to myself for a couple of days. I’m working on a chapter in a book I’m writing that has been particularly challenging. I’ve written several essays that fall short of my expectations, and I keep trying to find the right words. The chapter is about the love of creation. I keep thinking it will come easily. There are some natural places in this world that I love. Somehow, I can’t find the right words, however.

I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know love at all

There are many poets whose writing inspires me. Some express ideas for which I have trouble finding the words. Maybe, like the song lyrics, I really don’t know love at all when it comes to writing a love chapter.

David James Duncan wrote in his novel “The River Why,” “People often don’t know what they’re talking about, but when they talk about love they really don’t know what they’re talking about.” That may be the problem with my writing these days. I really don’t know what I’m talking about.

I should know something about love. I’ve been blessed with love. I was born into a loving family. I never doubted the love of my parents for each other or me. I have been blessed with a loving marriage for nearly 52 years now. I have loving children and grandchildren. I loved the work I did. I fell in love with each of the congregations I served. I preached about love often. I can quote several Bible passages about love. I’ve sat with grieving families and talked about how love remains after death. I say, “I love you,” dozens of times daily.

I wonder, however, if I’m being presumptuous, thinking that I know enough to write a love chapter, even the love of nature. Chapters about mystery and grief seem to come easier for me than the one on love.

I know myself well enough to know that I will continue to ponder and struggle with my writing, and I will eventually produce the chapter and get on with the book. I have quite a bit down already. I think I’m on my fourth draft of this chapter. Maybe I’ll look back one day and see it as some of my best work. It is equally possible that it will not be the most substantial chapter of the book.

I hope that I will be able to write about genuine love rather than merely recall love’s illusions. On the other hand, the song that declares, “I really don’t know love at all,” is a powerful testimony, and I’ ’m grateful to Joni Mitchell for having written it.