If You See Me, Say Yes

Do you know the Joni Mitchell song, “Amelia”? It’s one of my favorite songs, or at least one that haunts me the most regularly. Specifically, there’s this line: “Maybe I’ve never really loved/I guess that is the truth/I’ve spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitudes.” That line both comforts and terrifies me. It reminds me of the time I’ve spent orbiting around the ones I love, close enough to witness but too far away to be seen or heard.

I wrote the songs that became “If You See Me, Say Yes” during a particularly transient two-year period. In the process of attempting to complete it, I drove, completely alone, from Baltimore to California and back. I spent time in New York and Texas and countless places in-between. And, most significantly, I decided to move from my lifelong home in Baltimore to a small house just outside of Durham, N.C.

The short explanation for this decision and the surrounding transitory nature of my existence is that I’ve realized of late how important it is for me to be alone. Ironically, it wasn’t because I was dissatisfied with my life in Baltimore — to the contrary, I was overwhelmed with the abundance of it all. But it felt like a strange paradox — in order to appreciate the immense love and beauty that surrounds me in Baltimore, I had to move away from it. It was like trying to take in the whole of a beautiful painting with my nose pressed against the canvas. Stepping back, it all came into focus, and I could appreciate each and every tiny detail of the fabric of my community — how special they are; how lucky I am.

As it turns out, I like to be alone. In fact, I absolutely adore it. Allowing myself more opportunities to be in my own company is one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever given myself. Unfortunately, though, it can be hard to explain this impulse to the people I care about. Writing — creative expression of any kind, really — involves so much time, and thought, and space. It involves constantly, actively regulating how you spend your time — yes, of course it’s so much easier to go to a bar, or to a party, or to have dinner with a friend. But my guilty conscience was always there to remind me that every time I said “yes” to others, I was abandoning myself.

I spent a lot of time worrying that the people I love would take it personally — that they would assume my self-imposed distance was because I didn’t care about spending time with them. In fact, I missed them terribly, and still do. But there’s only so much time to give — in a day, or a year, or a lifetime. As I get older, I’m suddenly feeling the weight of time. For most of my life, I felt like I could get around to everything, eventually. But now I’m beginning to realize that I have to choose how I spend my days. And what I accomplish — the result of my time on earth — depends entirely on those choices.

I don’t think this record — or anything I’ve ever made, really — would exist without that separation, that loneliness, the longing to bridge the gap and fill the empty spaces between people.

I’ve always felt that music was my best shot at really being understood — or, at least, at expressing my true self most clearly. I’m happy with this record, not because I think it’s perfect, but because I finally figured out how to get it to say exactly what I wanted it to say. I like to think of it as a postcard, or a letter to the people I care about — something to show for myself and this time and space that I’ve taken. “If You See Me, Say Yes,” it says — I’m still here, don’t forget about me.