To me, the songs that I'm most thankful to have been a part of

The words of Laura Jane Grace are not merely a reflection on music, but a mirror of the eternal nature of human expression. She reminds us that the songs most worthy of gratitude are not those that remain fixed and rigid, but those that are living, breathing entities—able to adapt and change as we ourselves move through the rivers of time. Like sacred verses sung by generations, such songs carry different meanings depending on the heart of the listener and the season of life in which they are heard. What once was a cry of rebellion may, years later, become a balm of remembrance, and still later, a call to perseverance. Thus, the true power of art lies not in its permanence, but in its ability to travel with us, reshaping itself to the contours of our changing souls.

Consider, then, the ancients who sang hymns to the gods. The same psalm that gave courage to a warrior before battle also gave comfort to a widow mourning her beloved. The words had not changed, yet their meaning shifted, like light falling upon the same mountain at dawn, noon, and twilight. This is the mystery of enduring song: that it is never chained to a single interpretation, but is instead a vessel for the living experience of those who encounter it.

So too do we find examples in history. The poet Homer, whose verses were recited by countless tongues, gave the world The Iliad. To a young soldier, it spoke of honor, blood, and glory; to a grieving father, it revealed the weight of loss; to a philosopher centuries later, it was a meditation on fate and human frailty. The poem remained unchanged, but each age, each reader, each heart, drew forth a different meaning. In this way, it proved not just timeless, but alive.

Laura Jane Grace speaks from this lineage of wisdom. When she says she is most thankful for songs that evolve with time, she honors the truth that art is a companion, not a monument. Just as a tree provides different gifts—the shade in summer, the fruit in autumn, the firewood in winter—so does a song offer new meanings as we move through joy, sorrow, struggle, and renewal.

Think also of personal memory. A song heard in youth while walking under starlight may later resurface in middle age, heard again after the breaking of one’s heart. Its chords stir tears, not of rebellion now, but of resilience. Decades later, the same song may bring a smile to wrinkled lips, recalling the sweetness of survival. This is the alchemy of time and song, a transformation wrought not in the music itself, but in the listener’s own spirit.

The lesson here is one of humility and reverence: we must not demand that meaning be fixed. The world shifts, and so too must our hearts. To cling rigidly to one interpretation is to imprison beauty; to allow meaning to flow is to participate in the eternal dance of life and art. Just as rivers carve new paths over centuries, so must we let words, melodies, and memories carve new places within us.

Therefore, take these teachings into your life: seek out not only the art that pleases you in the moment, but the art that will walk with you across many seasons. Return to old songs, old books, old words, and listen anew, for they may reveal to you treasures that were hidden before. And in your own creations—whether they be words, deeds, or love—strive to fashion them not as brittle monuments, but as living offerings that can adapt to the hearts of those who will come after you.

In the end, the wisdom of Laura Jane Grace is this: that gratitude belongs not to what remains the same, but to what endures by changing. Cherish the living works of art, for they are as rivers of meaning that never cease their flow, shaping the valleys of our lives until we ourselves become part of their song.