Starting Over

December 8, 2010

It’s hard to imagine. It’s been 30 years since John Lennon was shot to death outside his apartment building in New York City—December 8th, 1980. For me and for many others around the world, that date will forever be a black day on our calendars. Each year on the anniversary of Lennon’s murder, I find myself revisiting the sadness of that event. One would think that time would have healed the wound. It was so long ago….

In December 1980, I was a 17-year-old high school student, and I was an absolute dyed-in-the-wool Beatles fanatic. All my closest friends were Beatles fans; that’s why we were friends. Like most teens, music ruled our lives. It determined our friendships and our social cliques. Lennon had recently released Double Fantasy, his first album after five years away from the music biz during which he had stayed home to be a house-husband and to help raise his and Yoko Ono’s young son, Sean. His new music was good, and it was hopeful. John seemed happy and healthy.

I had gone to bed that Monday night, only to be awoken a short time later by my mother. “You should get up. One of The Beatles has been shot.” In the corner of our basement’s wood-paneled rec room, I sat stunned, glued to the TV reports, surrounded by my LPs and my stereo, my headphones and my guitar—my teenage oasis of music. When the news anchor said John Lennon was dead…it seemed so incomprehensible. John Lennon has been murdered. Fade to black.

Fast forward almost 25 years to a sunny July afternoon in 2004. Now aged 40, I was attending an outdoor music festival, waiting in the crowd scattered across the verdant field rimmed with various merch tents, food kiosks and corporate sponsor booths, anticipating the imminent arrival of the headlining act. The crowd was typically young; mostly late-teens to mid-twenties, with a smattering of thirtysomethings and a few diehard forty-ish folks like me. But we were all music fans enjoying a perfect summer day at an outdoor rock concert.

Then from the tall columns of stage speakers that had been priming us with pre-recorded music, came those three delicate chimes, followed by the clear, unmistakable voice over gently strummed chords. A beautiful sound, but for me, one that is forever scarred with sorrow. And I heard the words that always make my heart sink; make my soul bow under a heavier weight:

Our life
Together
Is so precious
Together
We have grown…

Rebirth. Happiness. Hope.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The warmth of the summer sun gave way to the cold sting of that chilling December almost a quarter century earlier. Walking to high school in my New Brunswick town, over the path in the little patch of woods. Barren trees, blanched-out snow trail winding around roots. Winter’s palette of desolation. From a mini-cassette player in my coat pocket, my slain hero’s voice sang in my ear, painting my landscape in tones bleaker than any Jack Frost could conjure—another song that John used to do, that for me will be forever pinned on that black calendar:

When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we’ll see…

My friends and I were devastated. Everyone was. You could tell just by looking at people; tell by the way they looked back at you. They were feeling it like you were, as if a piece of them had been torn away too. In the days that followed the shooting, with candles and vigils, tributes and tears—and always with music—we mourned collectively and privately.

For many years afterwards, through most of the ’80s in fact, I couldn’t bring myself to listen to my Beatles records. It was just too difficult. By the end of the decade that shadow had lifted, but whenever I would hear that song, “(Just Like) Starting Over”, the sorrow and tragedy of that dark December would once again haunt me.

Back at the summer concert, I look around me and realize that many of the younger folks probably weren’t even born when Lennon had been killed, or were too young to have felt the loss the way those of us did who had been there and had borne witness to the horrible final chapter. They hadn’t seen the promise of a happy ending coming around the corner, only to turn the page and find nothing but a blood stain and shattered glass, to feel the unutterable disbelief and the sick blur of senselessness and incomprehension.

Many in the crowd were moving to the beat of the song, swaying in the warm summer breeze, squeezing their summer squeezes a little tighter. A glance met. A shy smile. A kiss. All shining on.

I envied them. How I wished I could feel the joy in that song—and such a pleasant song it is, so full of love and hope. But it was denied to me.

Of course, it’s only natural to feel sorrow when you’re reminded of the loss of someone who was important to you, especially having lost them in such a tragic and violent way. It’s just that over the course of these past three decades, during which time I’ve experienced my share of life’s trials and tribulations and have seen those close to me go through similar things—the passing of friends and loved ones, illnesses, divorces and failed relationships, and the many other troubles life tosses our way—I’ve tried to understand and accept it all with equanimity.

Yes, life can take surprising turns in the blink of an eye, in the flash of a moment. They can be tragic turns, spinning you into darkness, or, equally, they can be revivifying, leading you to light and joy and peace. Happiness may be waiting around the corner, about to take you into its warm embrace. Or, perhaps more to the point, waiting for you to embrace it. As John said in his song “Instant Karma”, it’s up to you. Yeah, you.

So what can I do? Is there some way to escape this sadness? Is it yet possible for me to find a glimmer of something good in this? Nothing can bring John back, of course, but maybe there is one thing I can do: whenever I hear that song, maybe I can try to reclaim it—for me. Perhaps I can rescue the life-affirming emotions and ideas of “Starting Over”—the love and hope and optimism that John poured into it—from being obliterated along with everything else that was lost when those gunshots shattered the dead winter air—and broke many, many hearts, including mine—that December night 30 years ago.

So as I remember John Lennon on this dark anniversary, maybe what I also need to remember is that hope and happiness can be reborn with every new day, and that each day, each moment, is just like starting over.

And maybe someday I’ll be able to hear that song without a stab in my heart. Maybe even manage a smile. Maybe someday soon.

Imagine that.