Written on January 8, 2026
A few months ago, I was walking down an empty road. It was late, everyone was asleep already. Winter had just begun, and it was snowing gently, but the wind was still blowing leaves from trees. The dim street lamps pointed out leaves and snow and a few of the houses.
I had just gotten off the train from a long day in Chicago. It must have been one of the days I was doing my surveys. My car was out of commission, so I had to walk 20 minutes. While I forced myself to walk, I was listening to Spotify. The song Shepherd, Piano Version, by Joep Beving, was on.
In that moment, or some moment within that moment, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of deep emotion, to the point that I was legitimately tearing up. I don't remember what I was feeling, or why. I only remember thinking of the beauty of that moment; the leaves, the snow, the dark, the solitude.
The feeling was so intense that I wanted to share it. Incorrectly, I associated it with the piano piece itself. So I began to learn it on the piano on my days off. I was determined to master it so I could play it for others.
But as I listened to it more and more often on Spotify, and the more I practiced playing it, that feeling faded. I think part of it was the demystification of the song. As we learn how something works, its more mystery slowly fades. But that doesn't seem to be the whole picture.
I think the fact that the song was touching a pain in my heart, maybe healing a wound deep within my heart, was causing the feeling. I never talk about myself or what I'm going through during my surveys. My goal when doing those is to focus entirely on helping others. But like everyone else, I too have much to heal from.
It was that moment, walking through the snowy autumn night, and seeing the harmonious beauty of the whole experience, that truly brought those emotions up within me. The song had almost nothing to do with it, except that it was a part of that overall experience. If I could paint, and remember how that night looked, I would paint it over and over until it was perfect. I would paint it from multiple angles, every image I saw.
When I go to the gym and exercise, listening to music, I can often push myself much further with specific songs. It's almost as if those songs become part of my muscles. As I listen to the music, it enters me through my ears, flows down into my heart, pumps into my bloodstream, and through hypertrophy, becomes part of my muscles. The principles and morals and character of those songs, the hopes and dreams and aspirations they propose, get baked into your new muscles, becoming part of you.
In general, this rule seems to apply to all things in life. The more we suffer, the more we grow. Nothing is free. A marriage proposal is preceded by sacrificed time. Birth is preceded by labor pains. Without teeth, jawbones atrophy. Without fasting, feasting leads to nausea. No one walks or talks without years of difficult practice first.
Every good thing seems to be purchased by intense pain. Some of the most moving and inspiring music I have ever heard was very clearly born of extreme emotional pain. The only good live performance of Radiohead's song Creep is the one they performed on Conan's very first episode in 1993. In all other performances, by Radiohead or anyone else, the notes are there, but the beauty of it all is more or less dimmed.
As a Catholic, I do firmly believe there is a mystical connection. I am convinced that, in the spiritual world, pain is a currency. You can store up suffering, and use it to pay for things. It can be used to pay for a good number of things, for ourselves or for others, now or in the future. It can pay off spiritual debts incrued by injustices, or spiritual benefits undeserved and otherwise unearned. Jesus, Mary and Joseph did this by their whole lives. The Saints did this throughout their lives.
If this is true, then it can be applied to all forms of art just as well. The pain you suffer throughout life is stored up in a treasury of sorts. Whatever endeavor you then apply yourself to, the pain is also applied to. The efficacy of the thing is magnified significantly. If it's art, then it's intended beauty is reproduced within its viewers.
Dulling the pain through alcohol or drugs diminishes its effect. This is why Mary didn't say "we have no wine" but "they have no wine." She did not drink any wine herself. Neither did Joseph. Art, or any creation, is most efficacious when it is carved out of pain.