Some songs don’t just play in the background. They move into your chest, rearrange the furniture, and hang curtains in your ribcage. For me, it was Harry Styles’ Matilda. The lyric, “You don’t have to be sorry for leaving and growing up” hit like someone had been eavesdropping on my prayers.

On Day 7, I wrote about how Shauna Niequist compared family to an old house full of bumps, bruises, and broken pieces (Niequist, 2024, p. 17–18). That resonated because my childhood home, much like my family, was beautiful but battered. Rooms that didn’t quite work, doors that didn’t quite open, closets full of things we didn’t talk about. When Harry sang Matilda, I felt permission. Permission to grow past the blueprint of that house. Permission to let healing mean both repair and renovation. Art gave me language for what I couldn’t name myself.

And then came Fine Line. “We’ll be alright.” Isn’t that the thing we’re all desperate to hear? Not that it will be perfect, not that the house will magically fix itself, but that somehow, we’ll still be okay. Art does that. It pulls the thread of your story into its tapestry and suddenly you see yourself not as an isolated tear, but part of a greater whole.

Because isn’t pasta itself a kind of art? Simple, humble, and endlessly comforting. A reminder that something uncomplicated can still be profoundly moving.

Angel Hair Pasta (from Magnolia Blog)

What You Will Need

• 1 pound angel hair pasta
• 4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter, cubed
• 1–2 tablespoons fresh parsley, chopped
• 1 teaspoon kosher salt
• 2 garlic cloves, minced

What You Will Need To Do:

1. Cook 1 pound angel hair pasta according to the package directions. Drain well.
2. While still very warm, transfer pasta to a large bowl.
3. Stir in 4 tbsp cubed butter, 1–2 tbsp parsley, 1 tsp kosher salt, and 2 minced garlic cloves.
4. Toss until the butter melts into silky strands of pasta. Taste and adjust seasoning.
5. Serve warm, ideally with someone you love, while your favorite song hums in the background.

Art changes us when we let it; whether it’s a song lyric that cracks open our grief or a bowl of pasta that feels like healing in a forkful. Maybe honoring art is less about explaining it and more about letting it seep into our everyday lives, reminding us that we’re still here, still growing, still being nourished. So here’s my question: When has art moved into your ribcage? What lyric, painting, film, or dish reminded you that you’re allowed to leave, to grow, to heal?

Because if Harry Styles can whisper, “We’ll be alright” over a guitar riff and if a bowl of angel hair can carry butter and garlic like a prayer, then maybe presence and healing are closer than we think.

Gracefully yours,

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Reference
Niequist, S. (2024). Celebrate Every Day. Zondervan.