These past few weeks have been so challenging to me physically, mentally and emotionally that I have been unable to get a post of any significance out. I have written every single day but dumped every single day. A few words made it out and so did my disappointment. Today I decided it didn’t matter. Whatever I feel I am going to write and I am not going to dump. But whatever was going on – is going on…I think this morning was an indication of why I didn’t feel I could write.
It was early this morning as I went back to bed. Knowing I would not be able to go back to sleep (because I rarely can), I grabbed my phone. I’ll just ease myself awake. I needed to hear some of my favorite songs-something to awaken gently that aching body after a broken night’s sleep. I knew I had previously downloaded an artist who’s voice had won me over some time ago. Too early for my glasses, I squinted as usual with just the right tension to pick out the gold and black earphone app and selected Brandi Carlile. There’s is something about her voice for me, that gently rocks me. I can’t say what it is. I want to compare her to Ronstadt, but there is no comparison. I think of the clear, bell-like sound of Sarah McLachlan, and I realize Carlile’s voice is something in between. It has a purity, yet it’s got the pleading voice of a child. It sometimes sounds like a haunting voice. Whatever it is-It takes me to another space. I am at once elevated spiritually and broken all at the same time. And with each note this morning, I felt myself resisting the minor chords-I didn’t want to go there. But I did. Maybe I needed to go there. And even though it turned into a mess before my day even began, I was hooked and willing to listen to more. To me, Carlile is the therapist-the sister who gives me the time of day and she is telling me: “Hang on just hang on for a minute-I’ve got something to say...” with that first cut. When, “That Wasn’t Me” plays, my reflections and pain are wrapped up thinking about the metamorphousis of my son, his transformation from addiction-jail-unemployment and finally prison.
This is a big story waiting to get out on paper or computer.
“What Did I Ever Come Here For,” Carlile’s second on my playlist, begins again with a piano introduction and then…”I’d been gone for so long- and how I missed you-oo- my heart was aching for home…” My eyes began to flood. I am aching for home. I’m aching for those who made up home at one time. Is home a place? A person? Or both?
With each phrase that echoed from my tiny speaker phone, my heart pained me. And while I admit trying to sing in that pitiful state I didn’t care because no one was around to hear me but Sunni.
“…i dreamt that i heard you call my name- but my mind was playing games…i knew right then that i returned – to where i was before and I was so tired of being away that I just couldn’t stay anymore. What did I ever come here for.”
What did I ever come here for?
I was mourning a place. Still feeling out of my element here. It’s been a year and last month was the anniversary of my move to Oregon as well as the anniversary of a marriage gone wrong. FEBRUARY. The month I moved from California-the month I married-the month my divorce was final. The all collided in February. Perhaps that’s why I could’t write. I didn’t understand what I was stuffing. Now I do. It doesn’t mean I understand how to fix it because some things can never be fixed-just hurdled. I am jumping hurdles. And for now if I stop in front of one, go back and start again, mistakes and all- well I guess that’s part of the growth I still need to do. I’m glad for it-in a way. Not for the grief…but for the challenge. I didn’t really get it this morning while I was wallowing in my pain. I’m not understanding all of it now. I’m just trying to be honest with myself and OFF THE CUFF.
Off The Cuff 