Holding Tentacles With 10,000 Octopi/Recognizing Despair/Job Chapter 6:2-3

Maybe Mr. Rogers was wrong about something. Maybe even, he was wrong about everything.

He lived in a world of make-believe, and he told children, “Whenever you are in a scary situation, always look for those who are helping.” (paraphrase of how I remember it…I suppose I don’t always need to read the news to see scary situations).

Furthermore, I also may be wrong that I perceived when we reach to someone we think might help alay our fears, and bring a sense of presence even if they cannot solve the scary things, that in some way we are then responsible to meet their needs, too, in that moment or before we have fully recovered from the scary situation.

While I always aim for mutuality and have a number of friendships with varying proportions and forms of give-and-take, depending on the particular relationship, even in those there are times when one of us gives or takes in various ways more than the other. But, I don’t tend to look at things in that way as though it is some burden, honestly, I don’t keep track of such things so closely. I know my weaknessess – I often attempt to give back in other forms that I am stronger utilizing.

We all have our hierarchy of love languages and I know I best give in acts of service and gift-giving and most receive in words of affirmation. I have worked a little harder than some people to hone my skills of affirmation, especially with my sons. And always, there is a lot to be said for face-to-face interactions – I find written communications both easier in some ways, but also with immense pitfalls. I also don’t prefer phone talk with but a few very closer people. But, I also greatly value it and utilize it daily in my own flow of relationships.

The fact that I am an only child and also was raised in quite a peculiar way, at home and in communications, probably plays some part in making this more challenging and exposes me to wrongful judgements. Wrongful judgements and being grossly misperceived can be quite piercing in terms of wounding.

I think of the taunts that Jesus endured, especially on the Cross.

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Trying to understand or figure out what someone needs in an interaction(s) is definitely a more than fair question.

As is trying to determine what we ourselves need or want. I find that depending on the moment, that thing needed might change or shift a bit, according to the synergy and personal algorhythms at play.

I find that sometimes, if we need to directly tell a person what we need, emotionally, then that person is likely unable to provide that which we most need in the moment. As we interact regularly with various people in our lives, I think we develop a sense of the inter-algorhythms which are so essential for interpreting written communications as well as verbal and non-verbal.

I constantly work at recognizing the flavors of interactions possible in various relationships and friendships. There are those I can say most anything to, knowing that the gentlest of hands will sift through and keep what is worth keeping and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away…

Others, we may feel as though we are walking on eggshells, or fear their response should we be vulnerable, assert our selves, be honest, or disagree.

With some friends, our rapport may involve quick banter of dark humored sarcasm that others might find quite odd, even inappropriate, if that is not one of their linguistic genres. So maybe with those folks, I try to be more sparing in those linguistics. However, no one likes to totally suppress a whole side of themselves, whatever that side may be.

With some, we speak through tears, choking up on our words to one another. With others, we might work hard to show great restraint of emotions and recognize passive-aggressive statements and try to best respond, or to walk away.

Sometimes – often for me – it is hard to simply walk away from an unhelpful person or unhelpful input. I tend to want to resolve things – to be understood and to understand. Yet on occasion, finding some sweet spot of true meeting and connection simply is not possible.

Often, the feeling is mutual.

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This morning, as I contemplated writing and expressing, I remembered a nightmare I had during the summer after my junior year of high school. Of all nightmares I have had in my life, I remember this one with such clarity, to this day, because it was so terrifying.

First, the backstory. Always a backstory – a context – right?

Sometime I will elaborate more on how I contacted social services myself in the early part of 1980 and a social worker came to my high school, sat with me in the band room after school, and by around 6 pm that same day the State of Delaware had taken immediate temporary custody of me and I was sleeping in the home of another family I knew.

All that and so quickly, because of what I told her. She looked at me and said, “I can’t believe you’ve been living like this,” adding, “You don’t have to go home tonight.” She was a blonde woman named Jeanette – maybe in her 30’s – and I would have a number of interactions with her, and her supervisor, Carol, over the next months. I can remember how nervous I was to follow her advice…the idea of getting some agency to step in, legally, and take control of the situation was equally terrifying.

I didn’t know what would happen next…I had never done such a thing before.

The fullness of that experience deserves its own blog piece – but suffice to say – I had returned (on my own volition) back to live with my mother toward the end of May that same year after being out of her home about four months. It’s just complicated. And I did this (decided to return) at a point where the State of Delaware was poised to rule me as an “emancipated minor,” as I recall.

I do have some of the letters and paperwork on this salvaged from my mother’s home.

Why would I – or anyone – save such things? For starters, it serves as a reality check for me. Some tangible confirmation that I am not making all this stuff up nor exaggerating. It’s an integral part of my life story.

Now that I have layed out the backstory, somewhat, (significant for several reasons, in my mind, including that I turned to my mother, of all people, for help in this scary situation), I will tell of that nightmare.

So sometime in either late May, or June of 1980, there was a senior girl that shared the same first name with me. I feel a bit uneasy writing about this so directly here, since it was a tragic situation and I never know who might read this and what memories it might prompt. I certainly do not wish to cause anyone further grief.

So I will try my best to be delicate, and also say that years later this girl’s parents were visiting at my church and I did have a conversation with her mother. I really didn’t know the family in high school, and I just remotely knew the student. And probably, for that reason along with a couple of other reasons, this event served as some (distanced) means or symbol of my psyche working through immense grief, in what I have come to recognize as a kind of profound aloneness that seems to permeate my life more or less.

My father had died the previous May and was buried the day before my sixteenth birthday. If any reader, relative or friend tires of hearing me state this fact, well, I cannot explain the issue I have with that.

The very next day, my birthday, May 16, 1979, I showed up for the National Honor Society Induction.

There was no grief counseling for me, and certainly zero shared grief with my mother and the absence of any immediately accessible family connections. In fact, it was only the beginning of my needing to take responsibility for my mother in a variety of ways until the day I buried her in November 2001 next to my father in Boonsboro, Maryland.

And while I had practical and other forms of support from local friends and teachers, especially, along this journey, this (both the awkward absence and the problematic presence of my mother), along with all else, served to reinforce what I now name as my primary life theme (not a goal, but my predicament and challenge, repeatedly…a place I always seem to find myself in over and over) of being profoundly alone.

To clarify, my profound aloneness is NOT loneliness and is NOT about not having any long term relationships nor being able to quickly connect with others. It is simply carrying weights never meant for a child, young adult or grown woman to be carrying – weights I try over and over to give others a glimpse of – and weights that seem to snowball over the years into something that sometimes seems to have no hope and no meaningful end in sight.

And I acknowledge I am not unique in this – there are others in this world who have trod various vales of tears including that of the profoundly alone. The song, Eleanor Rigby, speaks of loneliness…those cut off in various ways from desired interactions. There are different kinds of aloneness – mine comes from recognition of seemingly endless weights that I am simply used to carrying, that are hard to convey or find the sweet spot relationships that are life-giving and enable me to carry things only I can carry.

I know there are times I have felt quite alone in a crowd, and have heard of others with this same experience. I tend to be a more one-on-one person.

Sometimes, we who carry these weights have difficulty directly asking for help, or receiving it. Often, I have found that I have trouble making my needs known and even that some people that I might expect to better understand, seem to not respect or value my own ability to state what I need. Over the years, these situations can be exasperating.

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So back to June 1980. It was a school day – possibly a Friday – and our high school was having the annual student government event in the auditorium all day, an event I didn’t quite understand where students dressed in costumes as delegates in this convention of sorts.

This female senior student, also a member of the National Honor Society, had left school midday in a vehicle which I believe, as I recall, was driven by a male student that was either a senior or who had already graduated previously. By the end of the school day word was spreading – possibly over the intercom but I can’t say for sure – among the students, that she had been tragically killed in a motor vehicle accident.

When I got home from school, my high school boyfriend called me, distraught…his mother had told him that “Eileen was killed in an accident” (they were also friends) and his first thought was of me. We had a conversation – this young man had walked through some very difficult things with me during the last two years of my high school days after my father passed, and in particular, that year.

I think it was around this time, maybe weeks later during that summer of 1980, that I awoke from what was, hands down, the worst nightmare of my life.

In the dream, I was in a basement at a party. The lights seemed dim as I recall in my mind’s eye, and there was a murmur and low buzz of hushed conversations going on. I was socially awkward (and still am to some degree) and in the dream I kept going from group to group trying to join into their conversations.

Each time I walked into a group of my fellow students, I would say, “Did you hear what happened to Eileen?” And as I recall, there was no real response or conversation about the event, and then I would leave and go on to another group, again saying the same thing, “Did you hear what happened to Eileen?”

This went on a number of times until I finally came to a group, and in the dream this girl who had been killed, Eileen, was standing in that group across from me. I made my same announcement and then in the dream, she and I locked eyes.

She had these very crystal blue eyes as I recall, and in the dream the buzzing conversation was going on about me and as I stared into her eyes a single tear was rolling down her cheek. (In real life, I had kissed my father’s cheek in the casket and watched my tears roll down his make-upped face).

This dream was so terrifying – I don’t recall if I woke up screaming, perhaps – but it was frightening enough that I went into the living room where my mother was awake, and actually told her the dream. That says quite a lot.

I really don’t remember her response too clearly, but I remember I was shaking badly and I turned on every light I could find in the house. I think I almost begged to stay in the living with her until I could return to bed. There was a kind of fear and dread that was paralyzing and I couldn’t in that moment imagine ever sleeping again.

There is more to this story…some things that haunted me on and off until after my senior graduation. Probably some of these things are too much to write here, but another high school friend, Joan, was one I confided in the following year, when I began having what I might consider in retrospect, some type of unusual anxiety reaction, but I do not know.

I will say that toward the end of my junior year after this student died, I walked in to an Honor Society Meeting a few minutes late to learn I had been nominated (without asking, and voted in already – I “think”- to my surprise and eerie shock) for secretary the following year, to fill the role that this other “Eileen” had held. Whether this happened prior to or after the nightmare, I do not recall. It was just the beginning of a complex set of things in my mind that laid the groundwork for immense fear around the spring of the following year in 1981, as students would rumor that each year at CHS a senior somehow meets a tragic death. I began to feel an intense sense of doom, that I shared but with one other student, my friend Joan, that I’ve long ago lost touch with.

I just couldn’t put it in words, and I recall her listening so well to me and we would engage in conversations surrounding the particulars of my fearful thoughts.

I will say, that another teacher had asked me to tutor someone they knew, a couple evenings a week, around that time. The first time I went to the house during this spring of my high school year, during a time my mother was in the Delaware State Hospital and I was living alone and driving her car, and more, worthy of another story or two...the student, who went to a different high school and was disabled, told me, as we discussed people we might mutually know, that (the other) “Eileen used to come here and tutor me also.”

A sense of heavy dread came over me, and I barely made it home up Kirkwood Highway at night. I pulled over along the road, shaking, a few times. These were some of the few times in my entire life I’ve had something that clearly resembling a panic attack, in that form. I got inside and locked the doors and called my then former high school boyfriend’s mother, who was available and calmed me down.

I was very fearful and I remember her urging me to make sure all the doors were locked. I am not sure why she walked me through it that way, probably it helped re-assure me that I was home, and safe.

I can recall over the years dreaming I am being chased and someone is trying to break in. In the dreams, I am just inside my mother’s front door, alone, and I am turning and turning locks, deadbolt chains and more…and feel like there is an intruder just on the other side, pushing at the knob, and I am hiding below the windows, or peep hole, terrified…and alone…

The next day at school I found myself making my way into this teacher’s classroom and (possibly even crying) explaining why I just could not do this. He taught psychology at the school, and said something along the lines of (I also told him my dream from the prior year) he thought this was all a grief reaction to my father’s death. He listened, re-assured me, and did not pressure me but told me to “think about things more” and let him know for sure what I wanted to do. I think he told me he thought I would be very good helping in the situation.

I did re-think things, especially that I wanted to earn money, and this began a relationship with this young, disabled woman that took different forms over the next decade of my life, at least, though eventually I lost touch with her and the family. But not before this family in various ways played a vital and essential part of my life and helping me throughout college, especially, and I, in theirs. I spent two summers as a live-in aid while also working other jobs, which enabled me to not have to go back to my mother’s home for the first two summers. A relation of theirs also came to my aid the summer of 1982 when I had to again initiate a 72 hour evaluation of my mother at the Delaware State Hospital – a situation that was always quite upsetting and stressful for me. I remember this family with love and fondness.

They are part of the village that helped me survive, and worthy of mention in this piece.

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What I really wanted to write about here today (sorry for the roundabout lead-in) is an image I came up with last weekend while talking with a friend and trying to catch up…in the moment…I didn’t even know where to begin….with the usual plethora of particulars, now seemingly on steroids.

I’m getting tired of saying “details” – we all get so exhausted by the details of it all.

So I’m finding now another word…the “particulars.”

I said “It is like there are a 100 octopi surrounding me….and they are all holding hands in strange, peculiar ways!”

It didn’t take me long into sharing to multiply the number to 10,000. Then, a mere two days later…the image was morphing in my mind to 10,000 octopi surrounding me, all holding hands with me, and themselves, in peculiar ways, while swarms of devouring locusts (of biblical proportions, seemingly) were crawling all along their tentacles! I mean, things can always get worse.

Some things are so true they can only be told in metaphor (I borrow this from a podcast interview, it was so well-put).

Within those 24 hours, through a string of further confounding events, I had the illustrated image in my mind’s eye that goes with this particular expression. OK, I skipped illustrating the locusts…that would be quite a lot.

That day, I prepared an “opening statement” of sorts by email to myself (just the right words) to continue in a discussion with my therapist over a number of things, one central thing in particular, but needing to additionally convey the plethora of ongoing events and complications (day by day) of just the past week.

Because she knows me, and follows me, she “got it” and furthermore, she “liked” my image.

Here is basically the beginning of our conversation:

My opening line to my therapist today was
“Since we talked last Monday, a lot has continued to happen.
You might be wondering or asking me
‘what do I need’ from this conversation.
‘What I need’ is for you to acknowledge that there are, in fact, 10,000 octopi in and around me, and they are all holding hands in strange and various ways along the neural pathways and external circumsti
(plural of circumstances, to rhyme with “octopi”) !!!
I need you to acknowledge that, at least from my view,
this is, in fact, happening!
Secondly, if you have any meaningful or helpful insights into how I can can continue to do such a marvelous job of maintaining, and step-by-step trying to detangle and operate within this wretched scenario, I am all ears and tentacles!
Actually to further complicate things,
I do think I am also an…octopus!!!
At least at the moment.
I am holding hands with selected octopi (situations, tasks, feelings, etc)
– at least one of their hands with one of my hands –
I mean, you have to start somewhere, right???

We all are in this scenario, to some degree.

And we usually know and are the best judges, somewhat, of which hidden tentacles are interconnecting.

That is why it is so confounding when you are following Mr. Roger’s advice, looking for someone to help in a scary situation, and find that it is hard to find friends who know how to help someone entangle in such a messy ordeal.

Some may tell you exactly how to handle a few octopi, as though they have the ability to fully understand YOUR OCTOPI and may assume following that advice would not potentially set off a chain of “different terrible things” you are aware of, because, you do know how some of these octopi are holding tentacles. Not all tentacles are bad, in fact, octopi are very intelligent. I’ve been told they have “mini brains” along each tentacle.

As some people speak into our lives in a way that is not life-giving (and we all have found ourselves entangled at times in some wretching relationships), the tentacles quiver and dance under the surface in terrible gyrations! We may get emotional. We try to be understood, more and more…

Years ago a friend told me, “Be careful of anyone giving advice who is not willing or able to walk with you every step of the way to the end result and consequences of you following ‘said advice.'”

Very insightful. I filed that one away in my octopi brain.

Sometimes, people get exasperated. They don’t seem to perceive, despite the person trying to follow the advice of Mr. Rogers, what it is the person needs.

Often, a worn out, fearful and desperate person, of sorts, needs presence, and hope.

Providing that to another person who is likely in crisis and highly emotional, can be difficult to navigate, especially if the listener does not see or perceive the interconnection of octopi the person is wrestling. The person gulping water in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, with no shore in sight, treading water and battling octopi, simply needs hope and especially when the situation actually appears hopeless – it is not the moment to vocalize that potential reality to them.

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During my lifetime, I have known three people, intimately, that tragically took their own lives. As I decided to share, for various reasons, in another recent post called For His Name’s Sake (Psalm 23:3), I battled something myself in 1992. For that reason, I think I have earned the right to be heard on the subject, from my viewpoint, which goes beyond what is shared below in terms of some other aspects, beyond the scope of this piece.

Those that have fought this battle can be haunted with challenges the rest of their lives in troubling moments, once they have previously entered that territory. We need to be careful with others, because they may be turning to us, thinking we are some Mr. Rogers safe person, and in fact, it becomes evident we cannot tell the person how we really feel, in some moments, as we are engulfed by various frightening octopi, all holding tentacles under the surface (which we alone know so well the interconnectedness therein), and ours words may be prompting new battlefronts and increasing those demons they have been fighting off, alone, for many years.

If there is one song that conveys, in my mind, what we all need to hear and learn concerning this terrible topic it would be the following song by Dawes. As a suicide attempt survivor, over 30 years ago, I think the lyrics aptly depict a number of things – not only of the fully desperate person, but of the quiet desperation so many live chronically live in, as heard in the second and third stories in the song.

Perhaps I’m reading into things with my own lens, but I imagine at this point in the song, the person on the bridge has grown tired of speaking. I think of the book of Job, often, these days, and am slowly working through my responsive thoughts to it, chapter by chapter.

In this song, the man has lost words in response…(think how we say to someone, caringly, “there are no words…” and think, of the many horrific words and accusations – word violences – with which Job was assaulted by the hands of his three ‘comforters,’ after his plethora of gushing words which basically revealed that he had suffered so many losses he wished he were dead.

The man in the song responds pretty simply. We must wonder if the officer mistakenly thought there was some one thing he might fix. Likely, not the intention of the song, though personal experiences might lead me to ponder that possibility.

I like to imagine, expound in my mind…creatively.

Imagine this, in that song…imagine instead the man actually speaks…and speaks…and speaks…dumps…vents…some huge catharsis of why his leg is dangling over some bridge…and the officer becomes impatient, looks at his watch and says, finally, “I need to go now. My wife has my dinner waiting.”

Yes, imagine that.

Or imagine some note…and family glances at the man’s note and says…tldr…tossing it in the trash along with the man’s belongings.

Yes, imagine THAT.

To be fair, maybe some people do not pick up on the value of catharsis, nor potentially, at some times, (not all), connecting even a few dots within the catharsis. I think most people hope that others will pick up and reflect back some words of understanding and comfort. In my own experience, if I have to so specifically spell out what I need, it further complicates things.

I also note in these profound lyrics, what is implied when the officer “slams” his patrol car door and flashes his badge. He is the archetypal figure here of heroism, authority and possibly, patronizing. Though he rightly, perhaps, perceives a need to call the young man by “son” (there is a lot that could be written about this) – we don’t know for certain how the figure in this song is receiving this fatherly word, other than his response to the officer.

We are not even told of the outcome in the song.

As I write this, I also think of another song by Paul Simon – I consider him a brilliant lyricist. I don’t want to get on to so many tentacles in this piece, but at the end I will also insert the YouTube of Paul Simon’s Save the Life of My Child, as it views the topic of suicide from yet another expressive angle in terms of responses to the desperate – quite an interesting piece that seems to embody on one level, the theme of what we call rubbernecking and the detached sensationalism our culture continues to move into regarding unfolding tragedies. The portrayal of the distressed mother, is no less as profound as the other portrayals.

I have heard of a type of ancient literary structure in which, sometimes, there are three main sections, with the middle part being the most central message.

I can envision this song A Little Bit of Everything, about despair, in that way. Each of the three stories tells of an individual’s response to various life themes/challenges The middle response may represent how most people manage their own internal “octopi” and forms of despair. They attempt to just fill it with a little bit of everything. They fill with foods, pleasures, pursuits, busy-ness. And I can certainly identify with this, as well as the first and third story figures, at different times in my life.

But all three of these stanza stories carry a powerful message through the lyrics, appropriately set to a ballad-like chord progression. Again, I think the middle one may be the one many, if not most of us, need to examine more closely.

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I am grateful for the gift of writing God has given me…though maybe I have few that actually read this far, I trust that I do have something of value to contribute to the ongoing human conversations that have gone on since the creation of the world and humankind.

Please use what I have written today to help someone, someday, because we cannot presume what octopi that person is wrestling with by surface judgements.

This musical piece performed by Dawes…in my mind…brilliant. If I were to identify the most significant line penned by the songwriter, it would be, “It’s the death of my first dog…”

And furthermore, if I were to identify the two most significant lines penned about proper response, it would be a need to respond somehow to the line that says, “it’s the song the angels don’t sing” and the line about instead of trying to make out every word to sometimes just “hum along…”

I am reminded of the good quote that “A friend is someone who sings your song back to you when you have forgotten the words” and equally, that we cannot sing a person’s song back to them if we don’t truly know them nor value what they share with us, rather than persist that they relinquish things they hold dear, to comply with their “fix.”

The part about needing to hum along, I think, means to not lose the forest for the trees. A distraught person may get loud, they may not seem to make sense in moments (I mean, how does one succinctly explain the 10,000 octopi and the unseen ways they are holding hands under the surface in such strange ways?). Essentially, those life stories – past, present and fear of the future – are in fact, that person’s song. And there are some who work through things themselves, eventually, and simply need a sounding board. It’s a style thing, I suppose.

Just hum along, so-to-speak…at some parts in the odd, gushing melody…

Think of Chapter 3 of Job. It struck me that he was actually calling for God to alter the entire universe to acknowledge his pain! This hyperbole leapt at me when I read again Job’s request that even the very day of his birth be removed from the calendar. I’m no physicist, but I’m thinking that might involve changing the orbits of planets around our sun to decrease our calendar year by just one day – the day of Job’s birth.

There’s a lot to think about in just that one expression, so powerfully left for us to read all these centuries later.

Why?? We must ask that. Why in the world did God give us the book of Job? From the very beginning, most of us would be hard-pressed to fully identify ourselves with the opening depiction of Job’s virtues. We simply start from a place so far below that bar.

Deep loss – and ongoing losses – are powerful things. There are no timelines on some types of losses; indeed, as the years go by, the longer-term and often hidden effects of various long-ago losses seem to just compound.

It is more than unfair for someone to dismiss our sense of profound loss and profound aloneness. We are simply not the other person. What we may treat in one way, another may be crushed by.

Extensive and seemingly irrecoverable loss is the initial basis for the book of Job, given us to learn from, by God.

Job encounters loss upon loss, and by Chapter 6, seemingly expresses his feelings in that moment in a way that might lead others to think and wrongly judge that Job thinks he has “cornered the market on pain.”

Job said:
It’s impossible to weigh
    my misery and grief!
They outweigh the sand
    along the beach,
and that’s why I have spoken
    without thinking first.
Job 6:2-3

Open your ears, heart and eyes…because sadly, there are people in this world who might not recognize or respond well to a desperate person if it were a snake that bit them.

I sometimes think of the NT text that says that we give others from the comfort we ourselves have received.

I would muse that for some, sadly, perhaps they have not received much comfort in their own sufferings and possibly, that is the reason for the lack of empathic ability. I really don’t know. There’s always a lot to continuing learning in life…

Shalom!

A Little Bit of Everything

With his back against the San Francisco traffic,
On the bridges side that faces towards the jail,
Setting out to join a demographic,
He hoists his first leg up over the rail.
And a phone call is made,
Police cars show up quickly.
The sergeant slams his passenger door.
He says, ‘Hey son why don’t you talk through this with me,
Just tell me what you’re doing it for.’

‘Oh, it’s a little bit of everything,
It’s the mountains,
It’s the fog,
It’s the news at six o’clock,
It’s the death of my first dog,
It’s the angels up above me,
It’s the song that they don’t sing,
It’s a little bit of everything.’

An older man stands in a buffet line,
He is smiling and holding out his plate,
And the further he looks back into his timeline,
That hard road always had led him to today,
And making up for when his bright future had left him,
Making up for the fact that his only son is gone,
And letting everything out once, His server asks him,
Have you figured out yet, what it is you want?

I want a little bit of everything,
The biscuits and the beans,
Whatever helps me to forget about
The things that brought me to my knees,
So pile on those mashed potatoes,
And an extra chicken wing,
I’m having a little bit of everything.

Somewhere a pretty girl is writing invitations,
To a wedding she has scheduled for the fall,
Her man says, ‘Baby, can I make an observation?
You don’t seem to be having any fun at all.’
She said, ‘You just worry about your groomsmen and your shirt-size,
And rest assured that this is making me feel good,
I think that love is so much easier than you realize,
If you can give yourself to someone,
Then you should.

‘Cause it’s a little bit of everything,
The way you choke, the way you ache,
It is waking up before you,
So I can watch you as you wake.
So in the day in late September,
It’s not some stupid little ring,
I’m giving a little bit of everything.

Oh, it’s a little bit of everything,
It’s the matador and the bull,
It’s the suggested daily dosage,
It is the red moon when it’s full.
All these psychics and these doctors,
They’re all right and they’re all wrong,
It’s like trying to make out every word,
When they should simply hum along,
It’s not some message written in the dark,
Or some truth that no one’s seen,
It’s a little bit of everything.

Songwriters: Taylor Goldsmith