Amy Lu's View

“Mother isn’t here now…” (from the “Into the Woods” song “No One is Alone”)

The first time we saw the Sondheim musical “Into the Woods,” it was relatively recently after my mom died, and the song “No One Is Alone” slayed me. I had what I’ve come to think of as a “Killing Me Softly” experience: Feeling extremely moved and vulnerable while reacting to and identifying with art in public.

I felt like this song about having a dead mother and finding solace in connection with others was MY song. I felt affirmed and comforted and also extremely embarrassed, because I felt like everyone in the audience noticed me sobbing. (I think I actually merely shed a tear or two–a pretty extreme display of emotion on my Midwestern Lutheran index, but undetectable to most human perception). 

After recently seeing “Into the Woods” for the third time, (this time at the Guthrie), I’m struck by how my main takeaway from the song changed. Yes, it’s still a beautiful song about loss and hope, but more powerfully, a song about trying to decide the best thing to do when confronted with difficult choices. “Mother” isn’t here now to guide you, and you need to figure some hard stuff out. 

Even more challenging, “No One Is Alone” isn’t just a promise, but also a bit of a threat. Sure, you’re not alone, and that’s comforting, but…your choices don’t affect just you. That’s a responsibility. And the giant you (or your friend) just killed isn’t alone either. We all have people. Which is wonderful, and also somewhat terrifying. There are consequences. 

Although I could go on and on plumbing the depths of “No One Is Alone” (much less the musical in its entirety, don’t get me started on the emotional and spiritual journey of the Baker’s Wife), I won’t–none of us have time for that. But I will ponder and appreciate how the meaning we make of art changes as we change.

I typically don’t do repeat viewings or readings of pieces–I’m not one of those people who sees a movie multiple times. I feel lucky if I make time to see or read something once–there’s just so much to take in. But there is something magical about having an ongoing conversation with a work of art. 

I’m struck by how powerful art is, and how we can all make such different meaning from it. Which brings me back to the “Killing Me Softly” experience I started this blog with. That’s a reference to a song, which for me was definitively performed by Roberta Flack in the early 70’s (although I love Lauryn Hill’s vocals on the Fugees version from the early 90’s). 

For me, that song is clearly about the thrill and the terror, the exquisite agony, of being at a live performance and feeling that something (for me usually the lyrics) is capturing my experience and feelings, but not necessarily wanting to have those feelings exposed in public. (Songs and whatnot can also kill me when no one else is around, but that feels less naked).

But as I was babbling about this recently to Chad (inspired by my recent performance of this song at a voice lesson recital) I was rather shocked to learn he did NOT share this interpretation of this song. For him, it was about the communal sharing of a song–at least I think that’s what he said. I was too surprised to really take in what he was saying. 

I’m not saying that Chad was wrong or that I’m right (at least I know I shouldn’t say that). I’m reminding myself how we often don’t see art, or the world, as others do–or even how our different selves do. 

But when we share our stories, and make meaning of stories and art and music together, we come closer to understanding that we’re not alone. 

I hope I just killed you softly (or loudly) with the profundity of my blog.