The Day the Music Died...or Did It?

Don McLean asks:

Can music save your mortal soul?

The answer is indisputable:

Yes.

For me, music is like a drug with a mainline to my gut, my heart, my mind.

Unlike, say heroin, this drug soothes, excites, and connects, but without the nasty detox or potential loss of life.

But, it can get pricey. Just take a look at our iTunes account…

I digress.

It seems to me that since the beginning of 2016, a huge shift has happened in our world of music. We’ve already lost a tremendous amount of talent so early in the new year. How many more can we expect to lose? There are still about 333 days left.

Kinda gives me the goosebumps.

I read a lovely blog from spiritual guide, Elizabeth Peru, regarding artistic souls leaving this planet, particularly the souls of musicians. It resonated deeply with me. In it, she points out that this is a good year to transition to the other side, thus opening up new pathways for creativity to flow back in. They are “giving back” even as they move on.

It’s an interesting perspective and I must admit, I believe it. I’ve seen my own creativity kick into high gear in the past couple of months.  Whatever it’s worth, I pay homage to those who have paved the way for us, from music to writing to painting to sculpting, etc. 

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Take a minute to check out her blog if you feel so inclined, but finish reading this first, okay?

http://elizabethperu.com/blog/

This has me thinking about my connection to music and my personal creative process. I can’t speak for everyone but I think that inspiration is stoked in many ways. For me, music might be number one.

There has been some scuttlebutt on social media from certain folks. Folks who mock those who feel genuine pain and loss after the death of a musician, begging the question “did you know him?”

The answer is usually no. Ordinary people don’t typically run in circles with megabands, huge solo artists, or rock stars. But, we are most definitely connected to them, certainly on a spiritual level.

Music penetrates us. It evokes feelings and memories. It creates vivid images. It colors the dull landscape of the barren desert stretch on the 10 freeway heading East out of California.

And even now, as I sit here typing in the Corner Bakery, I’m hearing “Kind and Generous” in the background and I’m instantly transported to my hospital room. It’s almost 17 years ago, I’m watching the sun come up, holding my newborn son, weeping tears of joy, listening to Natalie Merchant. Knowing my life had changed forever. Not knowing what the future would hold.

“I’m bound to thank you for it.” Indeed. Thank you, Natalie.

I watched “The History of the Eagles” documentary yesterday afternoon. I wept more than a few times. The death of Glenn Frey, even more so than the death of Bowie, penetrated my core. And Bowie, that one rocked my world too. I think the one/two punch knocked me out.

But, The Eagles represent so much of my life; a connection to my father, to my writing, to my love. The title of my novel-in-progress was inspired by some of the lyrics from Already Gone, for shits sake.

I think I took it for granted that I would be able to see them in concert again. I had no idea Frey was battling rheumatoid arthritis, that his bones and joints ached so terribly, that his stomach was torn apart by medication. His spirit was generous, infectious.

Did I know him? Of course not. But, his very nature lent itself to feel like I did. Like we all did. The Eagles were a bunch of regular guys wearing tattered t-shirts, flannels, and tennis shoes.

They reminded me of my dad in every way. Harry used to make up lyrics, laughing while singing horribly off-key. Kenny Rogers’, “Lucille” became “Four hundred children took a crap in my field. I’ve had some bad times, lived through some sad times, but this time my hemorrhoids won’t heal…” and The Supremes, “Stop in the Neighborhood” was also a classic in his repertoire.

But, The Eagles, he never changed their prolific stanzas. I can hear him now, belting out, “Standing on the corner in Winslow Arizona, Such a Fine Sight to See. It’s a Girl my Lord in a Flatbed Ford Slowin’ Down to Take a Look at Me.”

Death-and I mean as a whole, not just death of the artist- alters the ways in which we hear and process music. It might take some time and distance to see the change, to understand it.

That one song, you know exactly which one-it evokes a new emotion, a memory, laughter, tears.

It changes shape and is redefined.

It assumes a new identity.

It evolves.

Just like we do.

The anger I once felt that fueled an intense letter to Rolling Stone when Kurt Cobain killed himself in 1994, has dissipated. I can look back on that time and recognize the pain and anguish he felt. I called him a wasted iconoclast then and I still feel that way now, but I have compassion rather than rage. And for all the other artists who lost their lives too soon, either by choice or accident, I forgive you and thank you for what you left behind.

Time: it robs us of our youth but it gives us so much more.

To the folks who mock and ridicule those of us who mourn the loss of these great artists like we know them; we do. They craft the soundtracks to our lives.

I feel sorry for you. You’re missing out on an emotional and spiritual connection that draws us together, that reminds us we are one.

The good news is, there’s always time to save your mortal soul, right?

I think Don McLean would say yes, and I’m guessing he’s rethought the day the music died. That day didn’t kill music, just a few really amazing musicians.

The music lives on.

Promises

I had lunch with my niece yesterday.

Well, she’s not technically my “niece” by blood, but if I could change that, I would.

She’s Susie’s daughter.

And she was my soul sister, so in my book, that counts.

Four more days marks six years since Suz passed away, and her daughter and I have had lots of time together.

Time for chatting. 

Lunches. 

Shopping. 

Prom.

Graduation. 

Time that was meant for her mother.

Time that was stolen from both of them.

When we first started sharing these moments, she spent most of her time checking her phone and answering my unending questions with single word answers. 

I didn’t take it personally, I knew what is was like to be a teenager…but not one who’d lost her mother.

That was unfamiliar territory.

But as time passed and she grew up, our conversations became more fluid and natural. 

We were able talk about most things.

We were able to talk about her mom.

We were able to laugh.

Often, I would impart my “words of wisdom” which mostly meant I threw stuff out there hoping it would stick.

She would listen graciously and giggle.

She is a wise young woman, wise beyond her years.

I have also managed to give her little trinkets from her mother’s past.

This is where my hoarding nature really paid off.

I saved almost every card and note Suz has ever written me. 

They are in a Vans shoe box she decorated our sophomore year in high school. 

(Check out the pics below)

These little gems are filled with drawings, jokes, tidbits from our life as teenagers.

I’ve given her some originals and some copies. I’ve saved a lot for myself, but I will  continue to share them with her, and one day, her son, when he’s a bit older. 

He’s too young to read about some of his mother’s shenanigans as of now.

So when we met yesterday to catch up and celebrate her birthday, she also wanted to talk about starting her own blog.

I couldn’t help but be so proud because really, her mother was a fantastic writer. Even Suz’s emails were clever and concise, yet perfectly crafted to not appear that way. I’ve saved those too, thousands of emails. 

I think my yahoo account is nearly full…but I digress.

The point is, we talked about the nature of a blog and which direction to take it. We both agreed that honesty is at the center of good writing. 

I marveled at her courage to start at such a young age and then I wished I had been able to do the same at 22.

I thought about how she would use that space.

Would she process her feelings of grief and loss?

Would she share stories of watching her mother fight cancer for five years, only to lose her?

I hope she does.

Because it’s her story to tell.

We all know how affected I’ve been, losing my best friend.

My heart aches for Susie’s kids.

They are growing up, fast.

Even yesterday, she remembered shopping with her mother, who was truly a fashionista at heart, and wished she had listened more closely.

Wished she understood what she was sharing about fashion and style.

I told her to open her heart and listen, to think of what her mother would say about a look, a pair of boots, a sweater.

And to go with it.

The thing is, it’s all in there.

She is her mother’s daughter, the impression was set.

I hate that I’m the one sharing these moments with her.

I hate that her kids have been robbed of this time.

But we must move forward, right?

We can’t wallow in our sadness. I made that promise, after all.

I did.

I promised I would do my best to be there as Auntie Darc.

I promised to share those moments, which I honestly love.

I promised to keep her memory alive.

It’s still not fair and I’m going to stomp my feet and shake my hands because, damn it, it’s not fair.

But I will keep my promises.

Because she deserves it.

And to J & J, Auntie Darc and All the Ya Ya's love you more than you'll ever know.

A Genuine Thank You

Yesterday, I talked about depression.

Today, I want to talk about gratitude.

I am feeling the most immense gratitude.

Yesterday, through this blog, I reached out. I asked for support. I shared my own vulnerability. I shared my truth.

And I was overwhelmed by the response, by the amount of people who reached out to me, to offer an ear, kind words, their own stories of grief and depression.

I felt empowered rather than alone. I felt understood.

Some people used words like brave, honest, and courageous. But I think they are just as brave.  

We live in a world where expectations are high and sometimes we just don’t meet those expectations in the ways we’d hoped.

We often hear the phrase “the struggle is real” attached to a ludicrous bit of comedy, like being the 10^th person in line at Starbucks on Monday. And we laugh and think yes, indeed. The struggle is real.

But that little tidbit holds serious weight. It’s only fitting its become a pop culture cliché because society tells us we can’t be “real” with our feelings too often. We need to crack jokes, lighten things up, skim past the real issues.

Instead, on social media we post pictures of our greatest moments, our good times, our pets, our food, our trips to the gym, an occasional political diatribe (well, I do that at least)…

But let’s face it, some days are plain shitty.  Some days, we don’t want to get out of bed.

Yesterday, I wanted to be honest because I think I deserve it. I think YOU deserve it.

That word, “depression” has such a stigma attached to it. It affects so many of us in some way, be it large or small, intermittent or chronic. I just wanted all of you to know it affects me too. 

And the ways I deal with it…healthy or not. I forgot to include that writing is one of them, (the healthy ways).

Which brings me full circle to the space of gratitude.

Which is what I am feeling today.

Immense gratitude.

Thank you, everyone, for listening, caring and connecting.

I also wrote I had hope. The amount of love I felt, knowing I had touched so many of you on a deeper level, hope is alive and well inside my heart.

I am grateful for each one of you.

Until next time…