Author Archives: Scott Bowles

Away Go My Airplane

It occurred to Pooh and Piglet that they hadn’t heard from Eeyore for several days, so they put on their hats and coats and trotted across the Hundred Acre Wood to Eeyore’s house.
Inside the house was Eeyore.
“Hello Eeyore,” said Pooh.
“Hello Pooh. Hello Piglet” said Eeyore, in a glum sounding voice.
“We just thought we’d check on you,” said Piglet, “because we hadn’t heard from you, and so we wanted to know if you were okay.”
Eeyore was silent for a moment. “Am I okay?” he asked, eventually. “Well, I don’t know, to be honest. Are any of us really okay? That’s what I ask myself. All I can tell you, Pooh and Piglet, is that right now I feel really rather sad, and alone, and not much fun to be around at all.
Which is why I haven’t bothered you. Because you wouldn’t want to waste your time with someone who is sad, and alone, and not much fun to be around at all, would you now.”
Pooh looked and Piglet, and Piglet looked at Pooh, and they both sat down, one on either side of Eeyore in his stick house.
Eeyore looked at them in surprise. “What are you doing?”
“We’re sitting here with you,” said Pooh, “because we are your friends. And true friends don’t care if someone is feeling sad, or alone, or not much fun to be around at all. True friends are there for you anyway. And so here we are.”
“Oh,” said Eeyore. “Oh.” And the three of them sat there in silence, and while Pooh and Piglet said nothing at all; somehow, almost imperceptibly, Eeyore started to feel a very tiny little bit better.
Because Pooh and Piglet were there.
No more; no less.

Pórticos de San Antonio — A.A. Milne

http://sjfiremuseum.org/wp-includes/wp-atom.php

Breaking Your Own Heart


There’s a kind of music you don’t play at parties. You don’t blast it from your car with the windows down.

You play it when you need to crack yourself open a little.

Sad music gets a bad rap. Somewhere along the line, we decided that crying was weakness and playlists should be nothing but good vibes.

That’s nonsense. Crying to a song is one of the healthiest things you can do. It’s exercise for the parts of yourself you pretend don’t need it.

I keep a playlist called Break My Heart for exactly that reason. Thirty hours of songs built for quiet collapse.

You’ll find Bon Iver, Califone, The Chieftains, The Civil Wars. Artists who know that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is sit still with an emotion.

You don’t even need to understand every lyric. A few chords, a few words, a piano note that hangs too long — and something shifts inside you.

We live in a culture obsessed with toughness. Push harder. Get over it. Move on.

But sometimes real resilience means stopping. Letting the hurt pass through you instead of locking it down.

It’s not weakness. It’s maintenance.

Tears clear out what words can’t. They carry stress out of the body the same way breathing does, if you let it happen.

Music doesn’t rush the process. It doesn’t offer false solutions. It reminds you that you’re human, and that’s permission enough.

The best songs don’t try to fix you. They sit with you, steady and unafraid.

They show you that heartbreak isn’t a flaw. It’s proof of connection, proof you’re still alive enough to care.

You don’t need to explain why the song gets you. You just need to let it.

You’re not falling apart.

You’re tuning yourself back into the world.