On Sunday, I found myself listening to three songs: Small Axe by Bob Marley and the Wailers, I will Take You There by The Staple Singers, and Days Like This by Van Morrison.

They are very different songs, yet something connected them for me.

Perhaps it was not simply what they were saying, but what they made me notice.

Music can do that. A song we have heard many times can suddenly meet us differently. A phrase, a rhythm, a feeling we had passed over before can make us stop and think about people, experience, and the different ways we move through the world.

Small Axe made me think about size and strength.

We can easily assume that what is bigger, louder, or more established carries the greatest power. Yet life repeatedly shows us that this is not always so. A small voice can matter. A person who has been overlooked can still make an impact. Something seemingly insignificant can alter what appeared fixed.

It made me wonder how often we notice the people who are easiest to overlook.

Not only in large social questions, but in everyday life. In classrooms. At work. Within families. In groups. Who speaks easily? Who waits? Who is heard immediately? Who has learned that they may need to work harder before their voice is taken seriously?

Then came I will Take You There.

For me, this song brings a different thought: the possibility of somewhere else.

Not necessarily another physical place, but another way of being. A place with less worry. More connection. More room to belong.

Perhaps we all carry some version of that place within us.

For one person it may be a home where they feel safe. For another, being able to enter a room without wondering whether they will be accepted. It may be having enough money not to fear the next bill, being able to learn without feeling ashamed, or simply knowing that there is somewhere you are welcome.

The song made me think about how important it is to imagine something different before we can begin to move towards it.

And then there was Days Like This.

This one took me somewhere very ordinary.

A good day.

Not an extraordinary achievement. Not everything in life suddenly becoming perfect. Just one of those days when things feel manageable. People we care about are okay. We have enough. Something makes us smile. We can enjoy where we are without having to prepare ourselves for what might happen next.

It made me wonder whether we sometimes underestimate the value of an ordinary good day.

For some people, that kind of ease is familiar. For others, it may be harder won.

And perhaps that is another thing music can help us notice. We may all hear the same song, but we do not necessarily hear it from the same place.

Our histories come with us.

So do our opportunities, disappointments, losses, families, cultures, hopes and the ways we have learned to understand the world.

That is why I am interested in what happens when we listen beyond whether we simply like a song.

What does it remind us of?

Whose experience does it make us think about?

What have we taken for granted?

What suddenly becomes visible?

Music cannot answer those questions for us. But sometimes it gives us somewhere to begin.

Three songs on a Sunday afternoon led me from strength, to belonging, to the simple value of a good day.

Perhaps that is one of the gifts of music.

It helps us notice.

And once we notice, we may listen differently.