That Perfect Profound and Profane

I was just home visiting for the holidays, and one morning, as we were chatting in our pajamas in the dining room, while I sipped coffee and my Dad organized his pressed pennies, he brought up a song he wanted to play for me.  Little did he know it's a song I already knew, but in a version by a different artist.  The song was Hallelujah.  His version was one on violin by Lindsey Stirling.  My version was by Jeff Buckley.  We listened to each other's versions on YouTube.  And then we talked a little about Leonard Cohen, who originally wrote the song.  I was pleasantly surprised by how much my Dad knew about Leonard Cohen.  But then also not surprised. 

But my favorite thing about this conversation and this moment of sharing music was my Dad's observations about the lyrics to Hallelujah.  "Profound and profane," he said.  The combination of those words resonated and echoed, bumping back and forth through the grey matter between my ears, and then settled and nestled down somewhere deep in my heart.  That. 

Webster's defines "profound" as:

1 a : having intellectual depth and insight

   b : difficult to fathom or understand

2 a : extending far below the surface

   b : coming from, reaching to, or situated at a depth : deep-seated

3 a : characterized by intensity of feeling or quality

   b : all encompassing : complete

 

And "profane" as:

 

1 : to treat (something sacred) with abuse, irreverence, or contempt :  desecrate

2 : to debase by a wrong, unworthy, or vulgar use 

 

I told him I think all the most beautiful, most human things in the world have an element of both.  And as I sit here now, I know that the coupling of those two words speaks a truth about what is so moving about that song, and about all sorts of art, music, places, and people I sincerely adore and expresses a notion that is so often hard to put my fingers on.  But it's magnificent.  And I'm so pleased to have the words for it now.