When the winter blues get me down, there is nothing like live music to get me moving again. Some music is just joyful. Other music is fun. Some is masterly. And some is downright transcendental.
Thursday night I dragged my rear end out of the house for a night with some girlfriends to go hear Rosie Ledet and the Zydeco Playboys at Chick Hall’s Surf Club. Chick’s is one of those authentic and wonderful places: A real live roadhouse set next to a tire shop on a road to nowhere. The crowd at Chick’s is not the shiny, new and sparkly crowd. They are wrinkled and dented and a bit rough around the edges. They dance like there is no tomorrow. Feeling a bit beat up myself lately, it was exactly where I needed to be. These are my people.
If you EVER get the chance to see this band live, you must. The energy coming off the stage is raw and beautiful and gritty and real. Rosie’s voice so luscious, I wanted to dive into it. Her sound is part blues, part zydeco, part funk but all completely and utterly sensual.
I searched for a video that would capture the experience but not one could. Its a live thing, y’all you just got to trust me on it. But here is a little taste.
Last night I left a crying child at home with a sitter, put on my favorite jeans and best blouse, and headed out to listen to live music with a couple of good friends. Max needed me to stay home with him he said, he just couldn’t live without me. I knew he would be fine, and I knew I might just not be if I didn’t get out. I closed the door on his tears.
While my autumn blues have faded and I am cultivating excitement for the upcoming holidays, the reality is that something has been missing in the patience department. I come home and head straight for my computer, to write, to check email, to delve into a project. I don’t seem to have the time or the energy to play with Max the way we both like. I am short with him, his fears and insecurities annoy me, his endless yearning for “Mama, mama mama” are like nails on a blackboard some days.
I am short on reserves.
And of course, there is nothing like listening to live music to fill me back up again–to the top and overflowing. As we danced and sang and drank rum and tonics, the part of me that is not a mother, that is not an ex-wife, that is not trying to hold it together every day (however miserably or triumphantly) found her voice, felt her space and just soared.
This morning I woke up and played hide and seek with Max for two hours straight. I have been to the well and am filled again.
Today Juan and Max were sitting at the kitchen table playing a board game. Juan is attempting to spend more time with Max, something that makes us all very very happy. I sat on the couch and practiced my guitar some, but after awhile my hand cramped up. I needed a new diversion.
Last week, late one night I made a splurge on-line purchase. I ordered myself not one but two fancy party dresses, the kind I could wear to a cocktail party if I had one on my social calendar, the kind I could wear to a Bat Mitzvah. (I do have that on my calendar).
I ordered them against my better judgement. But I ordered them anyway because the last time I purchased something fun, beautiful and decadent was for a wedding over 5 years ago. I was married back then and the dress, while still in fashion says “elegant married lady”. Don’t get me wrong, I like my elegant look. But I wanted something a bit more…flirty.
I wanted something new to wear to Christmas parties and New Years balls. I wanted something to throw on just in case someone called me up and invited me to put on 3 inch heels and drink fancy fancy drinks.
The dresses arrived yesterday and sat in a box on the couch. I was having instant buyer’s remorse. Afterall, the only holiday party I am sure I am going to is for work. Oh, yeah and I am pretty certain we will go to Jackie’s neighborhood party. Last year I wore jeans to that one. I almost sent the dresses back, sight unseen immediately, disgusted that I wasted money on something I clearly did not need.
But Max was occupied, dinner was done and I was bored. I decided to try them on before sending them back. Decided I would do it so that I would feel better when I returned them. I was certain I would hate the way I looked and that would make me feel so much better about letting them go.
I slipped the first dress over my head. Just at that moment, my dear dear housemate who had done a load of laundry and was bringing me some clothes walked in. I jumped up on the bed so as to better view myself in the mirror. She immediately “oohed and aahed” as if on cue. Women housemates are worth their weight in gold just for their uncanny ability to “ooh and ahh” just when you need it most. I spun around and shimmied just for good measure. Yes…I thought. This dress is good. I am not certain I will send it back.
I stripped and put on the second. There was more oohing and aahing …But I wasn’t convinced. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the plunging neckline, the fitted waist, the bold red color and black polka dots. Did I look flirty or did I look like a woman trying to be a girl?
I took off the dress and put on the first. Back and forth we went, scrutinizing each dress…Did it fit properly? Did it make me look curvy or fat? How would it look with this bra? These shoes? I put on my very best underwear just to see how it changed things. Everyone knows that dresses always look their best with good underwear.
I paraded into the kitchen in the first dress. There was consensus all around that the beautiful black dress was a keeper. It was ideal for the Bat Mizvah. It was elegant and really only a little bit flirty.
But the red dress…I just wasn’t sure. I brought it out on a hanger. Juan looked at me skeptically. Max said he loved it and begged me to try it on. I asked Juan if he had a minute. Juan was always my personal shopper when we were married. He knew exactly what looked good on me. I trust his opinion. After all, he once thought I was hot.
I ran into the bedroom like a little girl playing dressup. I threw on the dress and came out. Max told me I looked like a princess. “You look awesome mommy” he said. “Please keep it. And please wear it everyday to work!”
But the real judge was the guy in the coat, on his way out the door. ”Wow” he said. I looked at him with a little smile and said, “I am not sure your opinion counts…You married me once. Pretend you never married me. What would you say if you saw me in this dress? Like for the first time.
“Its a beautiful Meg…Just beautiful. I think I would say–wow”.
I am keeping them both. At least I think I am. Juan left after that and I had to get on with my evening. I kept the dress on. I put on a pair of three inch heels and emptied the dishwasher.
There is nothing like making your own party.
This weekend, my friends Jill and Jay, two of the most beautiful people I know, took the leap and tied the knot. A relatively small group of us gathered on a farm in Western MA to witness it all and celebrate with them. The weekend was glorious in more ways than one. I will need weeks to process what I felt there amidst old friends, great music and beautiful country. I will need weeks for it all to sink in.
For now I am just buzzing with the joy of it.
During my most lizard-like days over the last 3 years, Jill and Jay have been my sun. When I am cynical about love, relationships or silly notions of hope, I lie down on a rock next to them and just soak in the energy from their partnership, bask in the glow of the way they care for each other. Theirs is a simple, honest, modest true love which radiates out from their little inner world and makes us all feel warmer. But it also buzzes with tremendous passion, a hot white streak, a super nova.
It is something extraordinary to witness. It is simply light.
I am back from another magical romp in the woods.
The children self organized and made the campground their kingdom. While they ran about feral and free, we adults did the important work of cooking, tending the fire and napping. This morning after breakfast we sat around the campfire all of us, strumming guitars and singing. A pastoral Von Trapp family moment twisted only by the children’s choice of songs. (I couldn’t help but wonder what Child Protective Services would think about the fact that all of our children know this Johnny Cash tune by heart). No matter.
I am unpacking now. I carry the camp chairs in and put them away for the season. They smell like smoke, smoke from the glorious fire, tended by Eric, a blacksmith-wanna-be stoking a furnace fit for smelting. We sat around this fire as the night grew chilly, laughing, telling stories, nursing stout and tequila, sneaking brownies the children never knew were baked, sneaking cigarettes they never knew we smoked.
The little children have been tucked into bed in the Tent-Mahal, lulled to sleep in by the whispers of a father who’s own children have grown too old now to be comforted by the cadence of his voice. Teenage fears are not easily chased away by fairy tales but here in this tent at this moment, he is a hero to seven wee ones, a hero with the power to keep the darkness at bay. Covered with children and sleeping bags he is able to relive a memory and to relieve those of us who are too weary of nightly stories, who just need a beer and some quiet. It takes a village…
The little ones are sleeping now. Soundly. The smoke blows in our face as the wind shifts direction and so do we, moving around the circle, shifting positons to talk, to pour a drink, to play. We laugh and sing to homemade music, two guitars, one harmonica. Red wine. Tequila. A few contraband cigarettes. Shake thoroughly. Instant bliss.
One by one sleepy people get up and drift away to our tiny tent city. They drift away until it is only three of us, the roaring fire turned to bright cooking coals now. My dear friend and I lay on our backs in the dirt and gaze at the seven sisters twinkling overhead. Another friend fingerpicking a guitar, Texas blues for the girl with boots, bending strings that connect right to a piece my soul.
And then it is just me, I sit at the fire, shifting the coals around, encouraging them to cool now. I breathe in the smoke, feel the soot settle on my face. I sit in the space of gratitude watching the embers. I am thankful for this trip, for the laughter, for the new people, for the joy my son felt when running free, for the easy hike, the communal dinner, for my dear friend and her family, for all the families together, for the music…for the sweet sweet music.
I lay back, the seven sisters on the other side of the sky now. I can’t help but feel that everything is exactly as it should be at this moment. That I, sitting alone by the fire, am exactly where I need to be. That I can relax here in this space. That neither the past nor the future really matter all that much. That the now, these warm coals, this autumn wind, this feeling of rightness is what matters. I think this feeling is called grace. I touch it and wrap my fingers around it. I tuck it into my hair.
I hear my friends stir, shift in sleeping bags. I wish them deep sleep and sweet dreams while I stir the coals. Then, minutes or hours later, I pour water on them and watch the steam rise.
I am so gritty, so grimy from this trip. I have finished unpacking and slip into a warm shower, before I head out to pick up the take-out we will have for dinner tonight. Before I throw in the laundry. Before I check my email.
The smell of smoke wafts through the bathroom–it is washing out of my pores and running down the drain. I want to stop it and capture it. I do not want to let the smoke go. I want it to cling to my skin forever.
Tonight it rained. I sat in wonder and listened to the sound of the rain against my windows. I stood out on the front steps and let me feet get damp. It has been such a dry summer. The rain smelled miraculous and hopeful, the harbinger of good things. Life giving and cleansing. Just what we needed.
Nighttime in Rio, just after the storm passed
I have thought alot about my trip to Rio –the one I took two Octobers ago. We took this photo our first night there. Eddie’s friend, an ex-pat who had settled in this magical city, had taken us for a walking tour and showed us his favorite spot, a park across a lake from the hustle and bustle of this city. A rainstorm rolled in suddenly, unexpectedly, catching us on the wrong side of the park. It fell in sheets soaking us all as we ran for cover under some trees, laughing. I laughed harder than I had in months. At that moment, laughter bubbled up unexpectedly, as unstoppable as the rain. It was so absurd and silly and joyful. We were dressed to the nines for a night out on the town, with water running down our noses, with my chic outfit dripping and misshapen, my “oh-so-Rio” sandals squishing and making ridiculous noises. It was the funniest thing ever to be in Rio in the warm rain. I jumped in a puddle and lost my shoe. Pretty soon we were all laughing because I couldn’t stop laughing
I had felt so heavy and stressed when I got to Brazil. I was at the height of my financial panic and I had just started to wrap my heart around the idea that Juan was not coming back. I arrived at the airport after flying all night with only $20 American and a three day training to run in Spanish. I went to the cash machine at the airport to take out money for taxi fare and found my account was overdrawn. My cell phone was out of batteries. I had forgotten my credit card at home. I had no idea what I would do next. I went up to the money exchange counter and cashed in my $20. I hoped it would be enough to get me to the hotel where I could regroup and figure out my next move. I thought I had hit rock bottom. I felt so alone, like such a failure. To keep myself from breaking down in this strange city, I repeated a mantra “It is going to work out all right” and then I added a fervent “please” and threw in a prayer for good measure.
The taxi fare was exactly what I had in my wallet.
I got to the hotel and they told me my room was already paid for. I slept a heavy deep dreamless sleep. I woke up to find lunch. A a friend of a friend living in Sao Paolo who had come to meet me. A fully charged cell phone and a Dad on the other end able to wire some cash to get me through the week. And best of all when Eddie arrived that evening he had two airplane tickets to Rio.
Four days later I was standing in the rain in Rio, laughing as the water poured over my toes and ran down my fingers. I remember thinking that the rain washed some of my grief away that night, just let it slip right away and run into this lake, leaving me feeling a tiny bit lighter and ready to start healing.
We just returned home from West Virginia. The house is quiet now, the unpacking of dirty clothes, of camping gear and photos has been done in a burst of efficiency. Max is fast asleep. The crickets alone keep my company.
Last week when I woke to my 7th straight day of a migraine I knew something had to change. It wasn’t just the migraines however that had me shaking. I felt like I was struggling, that nothing I did was enough to make it work. The balancing of work and parenting and being a good friend all seemed to be too much. I felt myself tightening from want.
It must have been the Universe who inspired my dear Jackie to call me and invite us to the woods. At the time she offered it sounded as though it was the only thing I should do. We dropped everything and ran.
I should know now that there is nothing that grounds me like eating and sleeping outside among the trees. The energy of the woods, the mountains, the river repairs me even when I am at my most frayed. Over and over again I rediscover this about myself. I am not sure why I forget so easily.
Indeed it was everything I needed to soothe my tired brain, my achey grouchy soul. It was like an amazing power nap, a kind of (in the words of Eric) reboot for the brain. I feel as though I have been away for weeks, I am so refreshed. The stresses that seemed to paralyze me last week have floated away, like leaves carried away by a stream. Joy is now running circulating freely once more–no longer stuck in the muck am I.
Indeed I feel the entire universe conspired to make this weekend perfect. The sky was the most intense cloudless blue, the air temperature was perfect. It felt as though the forest was in cahoots with our merry band of travelers. The river was perfectly refreshing for us. There were long stretches of little children laughing, shrieking, falling down from silliness. And beautiful moments of silence. And music. And endless firewood. And the perfect amount of yummy food.
Alone and together in shifting combinations we moved about the day, collecting, observing, creating. Each moment unfolded effortlessly as both chaos and community flowed as sweetly as the Potomac around the bend, rippling and bubbling and smoothing out the edges of our lives.
I feel so inspired in so many ways but I feel I cannot unpack it all just yet. I struggle here, tripping over my own bliss as I try and write about it, about the way I feel somehow knit back to together around my frayed edges. I just know that I am. And that at this moment is enough.
For more photos of our adventure, click here.
At last, on Thursday, I rise before the sun. Lisa stumbles down with coffee in hand and drags me out of bed. Together we pull the kayaks into the water, though first we inspect them thoroughly with flashlights, making sure there are no sleeping spiders to tickle our feet. And then with few words we push off onto an ocean of glass and mist.
The lake is still. Only one lone bird is awake and singing. Fog hangs down silent and heavy over the pines—the distant shore but a watercolor—an idea of a forest—a memory of one long ago.
As I move silently I half expect the Arthurian lady of the lake to appear and whisper something wise, perhaps ancient mother secrets of creation. My paddle dips into the water. But the ripples disappear almost instantly as we glide glide glide along the lake, paddling to the middle. The eastern sky is becoming blue now and then from behind the Monet pines fingers of orange reach up, like a hand offering hope. Then the great globe rises brilliant and true—a drop of primary color oil paint on a watercolor masterpiece: brilliant, garish, warm.
We sigh, Lisa and I. We break our silence to talk of metaphors of God and sun. I point out that every ancient culture worships the sun in one way or another because of moments just like these when a dark night instantly becomes day. More birds are in the sky and trees now waking their children and their neighbors with hymns to this hope—this promise that we have one more chance to live. The mist is fading fast, giving way to a brilliant day of blue skies.
I breathe in the smell of pine and cedar and whisper thank you. It is late before we beach the boats. Activity has broken out now on shore. I enter the cabin to see my child raise his head and smile—“Good morning, mama!” I pick him up and wrap him in his blankets, snuggling him in my lap. “Yes,” I breathe into his little ear. “it is”
Yesterday dear dear Dolores and her cute guitarist hubby Morgan sent me this picture from their party.
(Deep sigh)
I am still buzzing from the music. I have a bit to write tonight but wanted to post this separately.
Long live Rock and Roll!
Dance Dance Feel it all around you Dance Dance Dance Never knew love had a rainbow on it See the girl dance…-Neil Young
Last night, my new friend Dolores and her family brought together their whole tribe for a celebration to kick off their new adventure. They are picking up and moving west to Colorado. I am saddened and feel a little robbed–I have only really known Dolores for months not years but from the minute I met her she was nothing but true–the kind of person who elicits a deep sigh and instant relaxation into yourself.
The party was beautiful. A huge funky art space, good home cooked food, a tremendous cast of fabulous people. But more importantly, set up at the end of the studio, a stage full of instruments and an open mic. All afternoon and into the wee hours of the morning talented people drifted up on stage to play in endless combinations–songs I haven’t heard played live in what feels like a lifetime: Not Fade Away, the Weight, the Joker, standard after standard by Muddy Waters, CCR, the Beatles. And me, I was square in the middle of the dance floor, doing what feels at natural as breathing.
Twirling and grinding to music strummed on a guitar feels to me like being home. Growing up was punctuated with my mom’s guitar, my brother and a gang of friends banging out “Momma’s Got a Squeezebox” my father singing into a wooden spoon as for a mic. As a teenager at forbidden parties, we gathered around the kid with the guitar playing Simon and Garfunkel and the Dead and breathed in homemade music along with smoke and beer fumes. In college our liquor soaked nights at the seedy Irish pub were whipped up into a frenzy as the Lapdogz (my friends’ cover band) played and I sang along at the top of my lungs from the floor and danced my heart out.
Homemade music has been the soundtrack to some of the happiest memories of my youth. Magical first kisses in a parking lot with the music drifting down from the porch above. Music soaked lazy spring afternoons in highschool and college those days when possibilities stretched out like an endless highway.
Back in that day, everyone was a rock star in waiting.
Last night, long after my son had been packed away with my friend Jackie’s dear mother for an impromptu sleepover, there I was in my bright orange shoes, little white Christmas lights a twinkling, dancing from a deep memory of hope, joy and silliness and unadulterated bliss bubbling through my veins. Touching a place inside me long waiting to be reborn.
