Melodies of Memory: From Creed to Sicilian Tarantellas

The steam rises from my morning coffee, spiralling like musical notes into the air. Too hot to drink, I let my mind wander, weaving through memories like a skilled conductor through a symphony.
Today’s melody begins with Creed, those titans of late ’90s rock who grabbed our souls and wouldn’t let go. “My Own Prison” echoes in the chambers of my memory, and I find myself lingering on those haunting words: “We the meek are all in one.”

There’s poetry in how words evolve in our understanding. Once, I saw “meek” through simple eyes, just another word for submission, or “onderdanig,” as we say in Dutch. But time has taught me its deeper resonance.
Like a war horse, muscles rippling with restrained power, responding to its rider’s gentlest touch—that’s true meekness—not weakness, but strength wearing velvet gloves.

I close my eyes, and I’m transported back to Paradiso, Amsterdam, 2000. The air crackled with anticipation that night. Beside me stood my Dutch guardian angel and lover, his blond head nearly brushing the venue’s ornate ceiling. He’d appeared in my life during one of its darkest storms, a knight in modern armour who understood that sometimes healing comes through music.

This concert was his surprise, his way of saying “I’ve got you” without words. When Scott Stapp’s voice thundered through the venue, I felt his steady presence beside me, an anchor in the nightmare (my storm and nightmare were like walking with a bandage through the night and still being required to respond swiftly to unknown threats and meanwhile still sweet and caring for my little ones strapped on my back). Mark Tremonti’s guitar riffs sent shivers down my spine, each note washing away a little more of the darkness.

Even now, I marvel at how their music transcends my secular worldview, touching something universal in the human spirit and how he, in his quiet wisdom, knew exactly what I needed that night.

Taking another look at my still-steaming coffee, I reach instead for the plate beside it, where a slice of watermelon sits waiting. One bite and memory (that playful companion) performs an unexpected leap.
It pirouettes gracefully from Creed’s powerful anthems and my Dutch blond giant protective presence to… Sicilian tarantellas. Strange? Perhaps. But follow me down this sun-drenched path.

Imagine a Sicilian roadside where a humble vendor’s cart groans under the weight of watermelons. Some whole and green like precious jewels, others split open to reveal their ruby hearts.
The sweet perfume of Sandia dances on the breeze, and suddenly (as if summoned by the fruit’s sweetness ), the spirited rhythms of a tarantella begin to play in my mind’s ear.

Could this be synesthesia? Or is it simply the mind’s artistry, painting with memories like a master with watercolours? As an anthropologist, these neural choreographies fascinate me. They reveal how our experiences intertwine, creating a vibrant mosaic of sensory memories that define our personal cultural landscapes.

Life’s greatest symphonies are often composed of unlikely combinations, the gritty power of rock guitar mixing with the delicate notes of folk dance and the taste of summer fruit harmonizing with ancient melodies.
These are the songs of human experience, played on the instruments of memory and meaning.

So here I sit, my coffee still cooling, lost in this medley of memories.
I invite you to listen closely to your own sensory orchestra. Perhaps the smell of a watermelon will make you hear the whisper of a forgotten tune, or during a rock concert, you will feel the steady presence of an unexpected guardian. After all, we ( the ones who remain open to life’s subtle harmonies and its surprising protectors ) are all connected in this grand composition.

Or, as Scott Stapp sings;”, We the meek are all in one.”

May harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra