New Years' Toast

Last year everyone made a big deal about the whole 'new decade' thing, myself included. Everyone had their own psuedo-intellectual theories about what was in store for the 2010's - "last decade was about yin, bro; this decade is about yang," etc, etc. Regardless of the theories, we all agreed that we had a big feeling about what was ahead.

The only thing we forgot was that the new decade didn't actually start last year.

If you're counting on a 1 through 10 basis (which I believe we all are), 2010 was actually the last year of the first decade, and 2011 is the first year of the new one. I feel the need to point this out because A) Personally, I've had a pretty challenging year and I could use the fresh start, and B) I really do have an incredible feeling about what the next decade holds, and I want to make sure we acknowledge that this is a beginning, because sometimes that acknowledgement alone can be really empowering.

I've often wished I could stop time, just for a few breaths. The celebration of a new year is the one thing for me that comes close to that. We need a new years' celebration for the same reason a book has that blank space between the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. That blank white space is the mirror of the heart and mind. In it lies the totality of where we've come from and the anticipation of where we're headed. It is our space for hope, fear, reflection, resolution. And it's brief, but just long enough if we use it.

I've said before that there is no reset button to life, nor would we want there to be. Everything is a continuation. But there is a reason we honor time - sixty seconds, twelve months, ten years; In a life that moves so quickly and with such constancy, there's something about a new decade that goes beyond a label. Ten years is enough time to live out an entire season of one's life. Enough for a person, a family, or a society to grow and change, irreversibly and meaningfully. There's something both terrifying and beautiful about that.

May the start of this new decade provides us all with a chance to stare into that ever-changing mirror, embrace what we see, and march forward - with heads up and hearts open - toward whatever comes next.

Happy New Year.


-Jakob Martin, December 31, 2010
Los Angeles, CA
Planet Earth

Heart and Mind

My heart and mind are like an old married couple. Lovers one minute; at war the next. My mind tells my heart, "Don't get wrapped up in that." My heart replies, "Where's your sense of adventure?" And it's cute. Because they end up getting into all kinds of trouble, but at the end of the day, they're stuck less than two feet apart, and I get to watch them try to work it all out.

In truth, my heart just wants my mind to be happy, and my mind just wants my heart to be safe. But a lot of the greatest moments of life happen somewhere outside both of those boundaries. So each of them push, stretch, manipulate, and guilt each other until things happen. Both are constantly saying to the other, "I told you so." And they're usually both right.

Ultimately, they have to go home together. They've got to sit with each other in this very small space and communicate. Because each needs the other one to live. My heart knows that without my mind, it has no direction. And my mind knows that without my heart, it has no meaning. That's the essence of the relationship. That's why it all works out.

The Anti-Heist

A friend recently bought me two baby turtles from a vendor in Chinatown. It didn't take long to realize that a touring musician who plans to be on the road 200 days next year should probably not be raising turtles. Basic care for these little guys includes daily sun exposure, changing their water, feeding them fresh produce, and avoiding salmonella, which this particular variety of turtle has been known to carry, leading them to be banned from several US States and the entire continent of Australia. Also, they can grow to be nine inches in diameter and live to be 40 years old. That's a bigger time commitment than raising a child (which, these days, appears to take about 32 years)

As cute as they were, I knew I had to, as Tony Soprano might have said, lose the turtles. No, I don't mean having them whacked. Tony Soprano never would have whacked turtles. He'd probably ask his friends and put an ad on Craigslist, which is exactly what I did. Turns out there's little-to-no market for salmonella-carrying turtles who live to be 40. A week went by, and Diego and Angelo (I had caved and named them) were starting to grow rapidly.

Finally the zero hour came. I had to leave town for a few concerts out of state. I had no choice. I grabbed their small plastic terrarium and placed it on my passenger seat, and headed toward Chinatown, salmonella infested water sploshing around the tank with every turn. They stared up at me, quizzically. This was it.

I took the turtles into the store where my friend had bought them. I went in and explained everything to the vendor, who at first pretended not to speak English. I told her that she could take them back without refunding me any money and resell them, thus making twice the profit on the same turtles while sending them to a good home. She finally looked up at me, annoyed, and said, in perfect English, "I'm not taking these turtles. Forget it."

I had to think quickly. I thanked the woman and turned toward the display shelf where all the other little turtles sat rapt by our conversation. I said a quick, heartfelt goodbye to Diego and Angelo, then casually set their little plastic case down next to the others, and sprinted out of the store. It was like a heist scene from a movie, but the complete opposite. It was the anti-heist. As I jogged cinematically down Spring Street in the morning rain, the lady popped her head out and shouted a half-enthusiastic "Hey!" before shrugging and going back inside.

Wherever Diego and Angelo are, I hope they're in a good home, with some wonderful child who will care for them and play with them for the next forty years. Hopefully a child with a very strong hand-washing regimen.

Jakob

Everything Takes Time

Last time I was in New York, my Grandma gave me my Grandpa's old wristwatch. The battery had died after my Grandpa passed away, but I'd started wearing the watch anyway - at first with the intention of getting a new battery, and then, after I got used to it, as a reminder that nothing is permanent, further labeling myself one of those 'brooding, artistic types'. (My grandpa, by the way, never would have let me live this down - "If I knew you wanted a broken watch, we could have saved the money and fished one out of the garbage can," I can hear him saying, flashing that trademark grin.) Let's face it though, none of us really need a wristwatch to tell us what time it is nowadays, and this took on much more meaning: it was the watch that made time stand still. It also gave me the opportunity for a great pun; whenever someone asked if I could tell them the time, I'd say, "Not on my watch!"

The last few months have seen me through a big transition. There was my move to LA this summer, followed by what I'll call an "on-again, off-again breakup" with someone I had been serious with, which was long and difficult and eventually left me feeling uprooted in every sense of the word. I was experiencing the highs of our campaign, the new record, and being on the road, and yet, in the midst of all the attention and excitement, I found myself in that very private, painstaking process of re-learning to be alone. Maybe, underneath all my grand ideas of mortality and impermanence, this watch represented something much simpler that I would never have admitted: I felt broken.

Fast forward to a few days ago. I was passing a watch repair shop, and for some reason I decided it was time to go inside and buy a new battery. The woman at the counter reset the watch to the correct day and time, and smiled at me. "Let's check its heartbeat," she said, and placed it against an electronic monitor to make sure the battery was working. For a moment, I felt like we were doctors bringing a patient back to life. My own heart jumped when I heard the electronic click, click, click. Never underestimate the power of a pulse. It suddenly felt silly to have carried this broken watch around for so long. That constant ticking is the acknowledgement that we're here, rooted in the moment. It was like returning from a long sleep. I walked out of the shop feeling renewed, strutting at the heels of the new year - ready to begin again. It was the moment I had been waiting for.

Ultimately, we all decide when to stop and start that clock again. But it is incredible what time will do for us, even when we're not keeping track of it.