It’s a cliche that cliches are often based on truth, but the biggest cliches are easy to forget, like the ones about beauty. Beauty isn’t truth, but it elevates the soul just as much as garbage debases it. I keep forgetting to look for beauty in my search for relief. By relief, I mean relief from my own thoughts, which are my own worst enemy (not counting my trolls of course.)

Last night I went to see Van Morrison, and was reminded of the healing power of communal joy. Normally, I don’t want to make the effort to do things that involve any commitment of time and energy. A Van Morrison concert requires buying tickets, a strategy to get across town, a timetable to keep, packing snacks to eat, putting together an outfit that’s comfortable but reflective of my superior style, and so on. Thanks to my husband, I gathered myself to go.

Beauty is probably everywhere for all I know but I’m finding I need to search for it and cling to it. I wish this would become a habit, like checking the New York Times to see what new travesty is afoot. All my habits are bad but I know it’s possible to form new ones, better ones. Smoking weed is a relatively new habit that’s improved my life immensely. Same with Chai Latte.

Music used to a big part of my life before smartphones. Driving and listening to the mixes Max made me was always so pleasurable.  A house full of musicians was something I took for granted. The empty nest is quieter, and there is a joy that can’t be replaced but there is still joy to be had. I might need some mechanism to remind me: A rubber band, an alarm clock, a mnemonic acronym like MOEB (Music Or Else Bummer)?

I wish I could follow Van Morrison around the world and see every show. I wish I could rouse myself to get out and see more art. It’s a first-world problem but a life or death one for the severely depressed. (See Schopenhauer.) The crack is not where the light comes in, it’s where the vessel will break under pressure.

What form of beauty do you turn to for consolation? Tips, anyone? Here is a video that my friend Andra sent to me, an excursion into undersea beauty that left me weak with religious ecstasy.

And here’s some sparks of joy for you synesthetes.

Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks is not only the greatest album in pop music history, it’s the one that the angels listen to in heaven.* A new live version of this 1968 record has just been released, and while it’s a stunning accomplishment, it only draws one back to the original. Nothing comes close to the ineffable, haunting beauty of Astral Weeks.

I remember the day my friend Max brought it home. He listened to it through headphones, over and over. At some point, he started singing along with it. His voice was awful, even without the deafness of headphones. But my boyfriend and I were intrigued by his howling and the look of ecstasy on his face.

I was 16 years old when I first heard Astral Weeks, and it moved me beyond words, as it still does today. Sometimes, we walked down a dark wintry street in north London called Cypress Avenue, and if we were stoned enough, we’d sing Van Morrison’s lyrics: Well I’m caught one more time, up on Cypress Avenue…. Even then, the song was almost unbearably poignant.

Lester Bangs has famously written about Astral Weeks, and Rolling Stone has published more than one piece about the making of the album. The musicians came together without rehearsal, and were told by Van Morrison to “just follow where I’m going…”   The result is a blend of jazz, blues, folk and classical music that can be heard a million times without losing its power to awe.

I ended up naming my first son after Max. I married and divorced my boyfriend. Other music has featured strongly in my life, but Astral Weeks is the one that remains my lighthouse. If you don’t know this album, get a taste of it here.

*They also listen to Forever Changes, by Love, who you can learn about from Tobi Lynne.