Through the Looking Glass: A Journey.

About 12 years ago I worked for an agency in Atlanta. When I started, I was placed on location at a major client's corporate headquarters to work closely with their design department. I was relatively new to the industry, and this was my first time working in a corporate advertising environment. My rapport with my team was great. Especially with the folks I reported to on the client side. The job was fun as well as challenging, and I actually enjoyed it. It was pretty intense sometimes though; working at the client's, with the client. But I was totally rockin' it. Or so I thought. A few months into it, my boss on the agency side pulled me into a fateful, one-on-one meeting with him. He sat me down and candidly told me that my client-boss said she had issues with working with me. Loved me as a person, mind you, but she had trouble working with me during the typical stressful moments of advertising. That my tendency to panic made me "difficult" to work with. Difficult? How is that even possible? I cared about my work. Couldn't she see that? I was blindsided. And crushed. 

I've always had perfectionist issues on top of worry issues on top of panic issues. So when something would go wrong, I would panic. When I was overwhelmed, I would react. I would often beat myself up, worrying about my capabilities, and it would project onto those closest to me. In that meeting I was told they both loved working with me, but I was skating on thin ice as to whether or not I should be moved to another team. And you all know how ungraceful I am. Picture me in ice skates. I felt defensive, but I just sat awkwardly, and listened to what he had to say. Closely. And then went home and cried my eyes out in front of the mirror. For a very. Long. Time.

I looked long and hard at how I react in certain situations, both professionally and personally. Where it stems from… sometimes from my childhood. Sometimes from the often too-high expectations I set of myself. Sometimes just simply out of fear. I looked at how I perceive myself versus how I have been perceived by others, going as far back as college even. It was like a time-warped journey through a looking glass. And I realized the two perceptions were completely different. How I viewed myself was so different than how I was being viewed. How could everyone have me so wrong? Then it occurred to me that maybe they didn't. And I also started to realize just how many times others had tried to tell me this. Why couldn't I see? At first I was quite angry and understandably so (I thought) because to me, I am just trying to create good, solid, clean work. How could they not want to work with someone who delivers solid work with a near 100% error-free record at that time? Can't people see how much I cared about my work? It was because of how I chose to handle situations, meaning my tendency to react before I thought about what I was saying or doing. And to who I was saying or doing it in front of. Because nine times out of ten it was hasty and unnecessary. And completely self-regarding. My frustrations where due to my insecurities about myself. And this applied to my personal life as well. I never stopped to consider how it would trickle down to those around me. I just couldn't see it. Shame on me. So, I kept looking into that mirror until I decided who I wanted to be. It was painful. I mean REALLY painful… admitting to, and owning your own faulty behavior is terribly disconcerting. I was embarrassed for myself. It was time for a change. I can't blame my actions on anyone else, or make excuses for them. Man, it's really easy to do though, isn't it? A lot easier than facing ourselves in the mirror that's for sure. Alas, it took time and mindfulness, but I ended up getting a promotion with an 8% raise just a few months later. I alone, am responsible for me. So I alone, took ownership and made a change. I started thinking before I reacted. It was life-changing.

I told this story because I've been witnessing a lot of damaging choices lately. As humans, we are the only species that has the ability to control our choices. We can control what we say, what we do, how we treat others whether they are strangers or our loved ones. Our choices drive us forward from the minute we wake up (should I shower or not shower… what socks, pants, shirt to wear… should I eat breakfast or skip it to save time) to what we do at work (should I attend that meeting… respond to that specific email… sign up for that dreadful team-building thing). All choices. All pretty benign. But, could the choice to wear one thing over the other to an interview prevent us from getting the job? Could not eating breakfast alter our mood, affecting other co-workers? It all can really snowball into the opposite of what we originally intended. I know I'm making really insignificant examples and this might all seem quite irrelevant, but really. It doesn't matter how benign, our daily choices can lead us in a direction that we simply cannot foresee, or recover from. The good news is, we can kind of gauge the direction if we're mindful of it. If we choose to wear jeans to an interview, we have to be prepared for the possibility of not getting the job. If we're uber cranky we might respond too hastily to that one annoying email, which just causes further issues. You know what I mean. We've all done it. See what I'm saying? Choices. We have control over everything we do. So we better be prepared to handle the repercussions that will inevitably avalanche afterward. For better or for worse.

12 years ago, I took a long look in the mirror, and I haven't been the same since. It hasn't been the only time, either. I do it fairly regularly to keep myself in check, because changing the self is an ongoing process. I try to be the best person I can be and I really try to think before I open my mouth or judge another person. I try to have all the facts before I assume the wrong thing of other people. Before I react, I make sure I'm fully informed. Because, most importantly, I don't want to hurt the people I care about. Or anyone else for that matter. And, if and when I do hurt someone, I'm back in front of that mirror to try to figure out why. I'm not always successful, of course. I am mindful of that too. 

You know, there are a few people who I'd like to buy a looking glass for. Not out of judgement. Nor out of spite. Just heartfelt concern. But, it is not for me to do. Ultimately, they have to discover the need for the journey through, all on their own. I'm not quite sure they're ready to see the reflection, anyway. Or even admit there's a need. It's frightening, you see. Terrifying even, looking into the mirror for the first time. Holding yourself accountable for, well… yourself. I hold out for the day they do. And I so really hope they do. Not because it's painful, but because it's life-changing. And might even fix some of the damage that has been done.

For the rest of you who already have, may you look into the mirror and love who you see. If not, you can always make the adjustments necessary, then take another look. The choice, after all, is yours <3

Beaucoup d'amour à tous. Toujours. 

W.

And through the looking glass I went...

The Dawn of All Ages: The MLC defined.

Yes, I know. It's been almost a year to the day since I've written. A lot has happened… I moved home, got a new job, found my little peaceful apartment in the woods, and I am currently recovering from shoulder surgery, as I write. To be honest though, I haven't had a lot I've wanted to write about. Nothing insightful or profound, that is. Not that anything I have written about up until now has been very insightful or profound. In fact, it's been quite superficial. And I don't mean that in a negative way, just that I write about easy surface stuff. I've had other things going on over the past year that I just don't feel comfortable writing about. Surely you understand. I don't know why I tend to keep the easy things visible, and banish the deeper things to the inside. But let's save that one for another day, shall we? And with that, let's get back into the beach chronicles. It's been way too long.

Last I wrote, I was explaining my move and why I was leaving the beach/moving home. And as a quick refresher, the blog in general has everything to do with my 40's and my mid-life crisis (my MLC as I now call it). The trials, the tribs, and the comedic relief from it all. And it continues. Because even a year later, I'm obviously still in my 40's and my MLC is still riding shotgun. If you need the full reason for, and how it all began, you can read Birth of The Beach Chronicles.

When I discuss my MLC, it's always with one part jest, one part tongue-in-cheek, and 2 parts tangibly unpleasant reality. And I'll stick to that. Lately however, the 2-parts tangibly unpleasant reality seem to be weighing so much heavier on me. Kinda like that drunk dude standing too close behind you in line for a drink, at a bar you know you're too old for. It's breathing down my neck, invading my space and smells like alcohol. I'm not sure if it's perimenopausal hormones or the pain of shoulder recovery that's causing the reflective and introspective chunks of time I've been succumbing to, but it's happening so I should at least address it before it asks me for my phone number. 

Now, before anyone decides to point out (again) that life is too short for MLC's, or remind me that I have a lot to be thankful for and positive about, I know all of this. I am VERY thankful to have my close friends and family, a good job, lovely apartment and my health. All of it is included in the aforementioned thoughtful chunks of time. It's just that I really am finding this decade very difficult. *I* am. Me. Wendy. Wendy is having a hard time with Wendy's current decade. For a girl who has always, and I mean ALWAYS, spent too much time in her head, this time period for me is just one long, relentless internal seminar/intervention that I don't know how to talk about. I mean, who really wants to hear about all that? No one. And how I choose to talk about it usually comes out in rather "colorful" ways as you already know. So, I just feel it's better to keep it to myself. Well, almost to myself, as I'm obviously purging it here. I know I'm not the only one going through it. But I am the only one going through it as me.

I guess what bothers me the most is that I never thought I would have to face all the ages I have ever been again. And by that I mean facing all of the Wendy's I've ever been. That is how I define a mid-life crisis. Facing who we were, as we figure out who we want to be as we enter the second half of our lives. It's painful, and very funny sometimes, and confusing. And painful. Did I mention painful? We are every age we have ever been, every day. And the mistake we make is separating them, and relegating them to our past. Especially the ages we're not so fond of. We're sometimes thankful even, that we "aren't who we were back then anymore". But the reality is, they make up who we are. With every age, brings a different stage, which creates an updated version of ourselves. They make up our reactions and help form our decisions. How we approach love, loss, change... So essentially, they will also drive everything we do as adults in our second half of life. And we should listen.

I'm currently trying to reconcile and define the personal stuff like the self, romantic love, home, loyalty… as they happen to me at 46. All of which span across all ages, all stages. And there are various definitions and degrees of each. Expecting others to define, or value these things at the same degree as I do, is just foolish. 16-year-old Wendy wonders why people don't like her for exactly for who she is. Why can't they believe she is who she says she is. She has so many questions. 46-year-old Wendy wishes she could explain it all to her. Tell her all of that doesn't even matter. You see? We are every age we've ever been. And our decisions, emotions and reactions are derived from the internal discussions between them. Giddy new love, jealousy, self-doubt… that would be the 16-year old. Thirst for knowledge, growth, internal (and vocalized) existentialism… mid to late 20-somethings. Independence, pride, strength… 30's. Which brings us to the "40's decade". Suddenly meeting all of them. All at once. Because ALL of these fucking needs and questions and emotions come full circle, right here in this lovely, feisty little M. to the L. to the C. 

Deep breath. Exhale. And smile. 

It's not that facing them is difficult. In fact it's kind of cleansing. And insightful. Sometimes I even realize that I actually DID know then, what I know now. The difficulty is figuring out how to use them all constructively. Where to go from here. How to use them to reach my full potential in my second half of life. How to move forward and grow into who I'm supposed to be. Because it feels more important to me now, more than ever, to try to gather the best and worst parts of me that I have been, and direct them into new greater parts for who I will be. I mean, the artist in me wants to create emotional and moving paintings. The poet in me wants to write inspiring words. The lover in me wants to love deeper than I have ever before. How do I sort through all of that to become the best artist/poet/lover I've ever been?

I have a dear friend in Denver, who I also consider my mentor. In regard to my issues with being in my 40's, she once told me to be patient. That one day I would wake up and see that certain things just wouldn't matter anymore. The few extra pounds, new wrinkles and laugh lines. The memory of past mistakes made… That it will be liberating to not have to worry about what other people think of me anymore. It will be as if a weight was lifted off my shoulders. Maybe that explains the need for my surgery. Perhaps I've reached my shoulder weight limit. Who knows. I'm still waiting for that moment. Still working through the dawn of all my ages. But, in all honesty and despite this nauseating roller coaster ride, I kind of feel that day isn't as far away as it seems. I just need to be less 16 and more 46 in all the glory it could will actually be.

As I begin a new year of experiences and changes, as 2015 is already promising, I promise to share more and worry less. All I ask of you is to be kind to yourselves at whatever age you are. Love hard and honestly. Do right by your "self" and others. And embrace all the you's you've ever been. They've earned it. And you'll be seeing them again someday.

"The difference is this... Pain is a gift. Without the capacity for pain, we can't feel the hurt we inflict."

~ The (12th) Doctor 

The Journey Continues: A Commitment.

So, I've realized my Mom has been wrong about me, when it comes to the word "commitment", and in response to my moving about the country as often as I do. But to be fair, I haven't exactly tried to counter. Partially because I thought she was right all this time, but also because I couldn't find the right words to defend my choices in life. Until now, that is. 

As I was getting ready to move again, I asked myself the same series of questions I always ask before I move to a new city. Things like "What in bloody hell am I doing?" And "Why am I doing it this time?" And a new one, "How can I leave the beach?" as so many people have been asking me. And once again the question as to whether or not my Mom is right about me, came up. My Mother calls me noncommittal. "The Noncommittal Queen" to be exact, with the cities I've lived in, in relationships I've had, and jobs I've held… you name it. Unfortunately, that term of endearment has set me up for failure at times. And a few years ago, made me stay in a situation longer than I should have, just to try and prove it wrong. I certainly don't fault her for it. I can understand why she or anyone else would see it that way. But I'm now realizing "noncommittal" isn't the correct term to use. It has always been more about finding my way. My journey. And it's about attachment. "Uh oh", you're thinking. But keep reading… perhaps it will make sense without sounding like a total couch-needing, defense mechanism. *wink*

Let's take the beach as an example. How can I leave the beach. Well, I mean, it is true; the beach did bring me peace. I do love it so. It helped me heal a few wounds that were inflicted by my last 7 years. I sat and enjoyed the sun, the sand and the ocean both during the height of the summer and the quiet of the winter. And I met some really good people there (like my little brother, Marc… Hi little brother!). It was an important leg of my journey that has set me up for the next, and I will cherish it always. But as I stood on the deck, holding a glass of wine, looking out at it's beauty taking as much in as I could before I left, I didn't feel anything towards it in regard to leaving it. Not because I am heartless or unfeeling, but because my time there had run it's course. And, because I am not attached to it. It will stand on it's own just as beautiful with, or without me, and so will I without it. 

See, some of my attachments have been extremely strong. And beautiful. And painful. They were feelings for certain people. Jobs I've put my whole heart into. Animals I have loved and lost. Even a few paintings I've done, believe it or not. But I've learned when we attach ourselves too tightly to the connection with someone or some thing, it can suffocate the purity of it's original foundation. Think Lenny and his mouse. And the more often we form attachments, and the tighter we grab hold of them, the more unhealthy it can become. And that can either damage the connection, or make it more difficult to let go of when the time comes. And it will. I mean, people move, things change, and people pass on from this life. Life happens. It's important that you know I'm not saying that in a negative way. I'm genuinely not. It's not me being "guarded" or defensive. It's simply reality. And why lovely moments are so very precious when they happen. Because I have learned not to hold on too tightly, I can remain open to new experiences as they come. For better or for worse.

You should also know that just because I don't form certain attachments doesn't mean I don't know how to love deeply or care wholeheartedly about someone or something. Or commit. In fact, it proves all of the opposite. It's about allowing things to live and exist freely as they are, separate from, but along side of me, having the grace to let go, and understanding that all will be ok if I do. It's about doing the right thing. And about enjoying the person/place/thing while it's in my life without a choke-hold on it. It leaves a door open for people to come through, and for me to return to them.  

The bottom line is that I just don't attach myself very tightly to what I am committed to. I live very simply and honestly, and I try daily, to always do the right thing for the right reasons. All of this leaves me open for change. It allows for mutual room to breathe. To move around. And to mutually learn and grow. And if the time comes where the path splits, or there's a plot twist, like now for example, I can move forward with integrity, appreciating the experience as it were, without hard feelings. And without regret.

I will miss the beach, for sure. I will miss my Raleigh families, who I will always be committed to, to no end. It's just time for the next leg of my journey which is to recharge and rebuild with my own family. They are my commitment and my focus now, and I am very excited about it. And just so you know, The Beach Chronicles will continue. Lake Ontario is quite lovely. And there are a number of beaches I will be frequenting. Might even end up living on the lake for it to become Lac du Jardin de Wendy. Who knows. Baby steps. That's the thrill of the journey anyway, isn't it? The unknown. And I will most surely have a LOT to say about all of it. 

Love en masse to you all. ; )

Baby steps...

The Chip. A prelude to a change.

I've been slacking in writing, I know. I've been slacking with a LOT of things. I mean, I still have to do my taxes. My last entry was an interlude. The following, a prelude. Eventually it will all come together.

So, I've totally had a ginormous chip on my shoulder this week. Like, so big that I must look like Fred Flintstone's car when the waitress delivers the dinosaur ribs to them from the drive-through. Or, as I suggested yesterday, the very Hunchback himself… Quasimodo. I have no idea why it's there. Well, that's not entirely true. I kinda do. But it's so very unflattering to say the least, and I would have to admit to feeling emotions that are less than favorable. Emotions I make the conscious effort not to succumb to in every day life. Emotions, which when combined, boiled down and translated turn out to be just one big, wailing "Waaaaaaaaaaahhh"…  SO unflattering.

The thing is, I'm making more changes. Big scary ones. And I've had to really stop and evaluate my life and how I've gotten to where I am. I have a birthday coming up that I'm dreading, which is totally amplifying it all. This past year has been brutal as I have mentioned in previous blog entries, but I had no idea how it was affecting me internally until the time kept passing. And as it passed, it would peck away at what I thought was a fairly sturdy outer shell I had created for myself. More like papier-mâché than a shell, come to find out. (It was *reeeaaally* tough papier-mâché though) And realizing this, along with time, is what most likely birthed this chip. I mean, by definition "having a chip on your shoulder" means holding a grudge or a grievance which can create a feeling of inferiority, ultimately leaving a person quite defensive. Basically, when you carry The Chip you're pretty much still pissed off over something you have experienced. In my case, I'm pretty pissed off for a number of things I've experienced. But I'm realizing I'm also pretty pissed off for things I haven't experienced. And I don't have anyone else to blame but myself. It's just that consciously making big scary changes forces you to further reflect on your current status, which brings up your past experiences, which challenges and questions your future. Inevitably. And man, at the end of the day, it makes an unpalatable recipe for The Chip.

You're probably wondering what's changing THIS time. I know. I have done/said this all before, and again I'm sorry that I'm being so cryptic. If you know me, you know how private I am with my personal stuff. The deeper stuff, that is. A handful of people already know and support me unconditionally like colorful and lovely arm floats, should I start to waver. I just don't feel like discussing it today. Actually, I don't know how to discuss it. Words are playing menacing tricks on me lately, in that I can't find them when I need them. They end up falling out of my eyes in liquid form. Which is really so bizarre. How do they DO that? It's fairly creepy if you ask me. Rude even. *wink*

Anyway, in brief, there's a lot of letting go involved and a lot of temporary compartmentalizing. There's a lot of resolution and a lot of soul-searching. All of which needs to be roasted separately and gently, then layered back together like an honest ratatouille. So, if you don't mind waiting just a little longer, I will pull enough together to provide a bit to chew on. It's overwhelming. But needs to happen soon, because this chip is getting way too heavy to keep carrying around.

To be continued. Love, in giant masses, to you all.

W.

And now for a non-musical interlude...

I research a lot of different blogs. And it's so I can see what other people write about topic-wise, if they list favorite blogs, what kind of a following they have, etc... and then follow when I find something that interests me. I usually tend to skip over bloggers who haven't posted an entry in over 6 months, because I'm like, why haven't they? Why bother if you're not going to keep posting stuff? And then I realize a month has gone by since I posted my last entry. Sigh. Life. That's why. So I'm going to be better at it. I will. I just tend to shut down sometimes when life hands me a handful of shit. It usually takes me a while to figure out what to do with that shit. Bury it? Or recycle it. Flush it? Or throw it against the wall like a monkey might. You see, it takes time to weigh my options on how to handle life's shit bundles. Therefore I can't write about them.

So, I decided when that happens, I will just post some smaller stuff like recent creative work. Or the latest recipe I'm proud of, or have enjoyed if it wasn't mine. Like the blondie bars I just made recently. Goodness they were delicious. I found the recipe on the Smitten Kitchen blog in case you're interested (click here if you want to try it, and I suggest you do!) Chewy and sweet little golden beauties that I balanced with dark chocolate morsels of delight. So good. After making them, I read further down her list of "add-ins" to discover her suggestion of adding bourbon or whiskey. I see Maker's Mark, or Jameson blondies in my future for sure. Perhaps Jameson's as a little treat for my cousin, Matt. Oooo, I could even add some little pieces of candied ginger in there, since he does love a Jamo and Ginger… oh the possibilities are endless. See? Inspired already.

Thanks for hanging in there with me. I shall learn how to better deal with life's "little handfuls", so that I can continue to share my personal and beach experiences with you. Stay tuned.  : )

For now, I leave you with a vision of loveliness …

My blondie with a Jameson nightcap. SO good!

Phew… That Was a Doozy, All Right.

It's January 17th already, and another round of holidays have come, and thankfully have gone. I don't want to sound ungrateful, or like I didn't appreciate being with my family and seeing some old friends. Because I did. Parts of it were lovely. It's just that 2013 was exhausting. And the holidays aways amplify what ever you felt throughout the year. Have a great year? Celebration abound. Have a shit year? You're on your third martini singing "I'll Have a Blue Christmas" while watching the most horrible of Christmas movies on the Hallmark Channel. Of course there were some good moments in 2013, for sure. Some small and important victories. But it seems the bad times were really bad. Like almost 2008/2009 bad. Or could have been. And if anyone in my family can remember, that time frame was devastating. 

And so, I made an interesting observation while driving back to the beach for the first time in 2014, that I felt notable enough to share. Now, let me back track and tell you that I refer to I-40 and US-1 as "death row" and "death alley" because there are so many animals that simply get pummeled daily. Most likely because there aren't any damn street lights on the roadways here. Shit, I even collided with a deer on a very dark, and rainy trip back to the beach. It's bizarre. Especially US-1. I mean, it was so bad at one point that I swore the zombie apocalypse was going to begin right there in the middle of rural North Carolina, and all of the deer, raccoons, squirrels, dogs and "unidentifiables" would just one day rise up and wreak havoc on the human population. It's fairly unnerving to see. And highly possible if you ask me. Add in the "walkers", the nuclear site and the ominous river ways along US-1 and you have yourself an excellent creepy zombie series for the Animal Channel. What's a "walker"? It's exactly what it might sound like. Humans walking. It is nuts how many people walk along the highways here. Some stepping right out of the woods, some hitch-hiking with huge backpacks, some just wandering in an obvious, chemically-induced stupor. I'm not even kidding. Walkers are a "thing" here. One morning during rush hour, a guy was walking in and out of traffic at the friggin' I-40/US-1interchange. He was shirtless and very angry. Best you can do is avoid eye contact, sip your coffee and hope the cops come before he hurts himself. But I digress. Getting back to my observation… 

On my way to the beach for the first time in 2014 I saw life. I saw a few deer pop out from the woods, run a little ways, then turn to head back in. I saw two dogs running and laughing in the grass along the highway like they had just made the grandest of escapes ever, and I prayed they made it to their getaway car without being hit by it. I saw birds and tiny things that were not dead. Surely this must be a good sign of things to come. I'm not big on "signs" like I was when I was a girl. Sometimes I think looking for them suggests we're not confident in our decisions. Or we're looking for false hope out of the need for comfort. But perhaps I'm wrong. I just have to believe this year will be a better one than last. And that life will have more, well, life in it. And good life in it at that. Good energy. Progress. Forgiveness. New opportunities. Love. Yeah, definitely love. And growth. 

Some things need to change. And perhaps this will be the year they will for the better. My only resolution this year is to let go of 2013 completely. You can't move forward if you're holding on to something behind you. Try holding on to a doorknob and walking through the doorway. You won't make it out if you don't let it go. 

Happy new year, everyone. Cheers to a healthy, prosperous, safe, loving and down right AMAZING 2014. 

And then The Existentialist tried to speak poetically.

I just watched some raw video of a friend's son and his buddy playing an impromptu song in the front seat of a jeep. One on the guitar and singing, the other using the dash as drums. It's quite brilliant in its simplicity. Your heart swells because you can feel their struggle. Not to play music. That's the easy part. They are young. And everything is so difficult. Discovery of the self, talents, acceptance. And direction. New bodies to learn what to do with. To know what we can get through with… This life-thing is rough.

Being alive is tough. Our instincts and needs and fears all stored chaotically in a package of nerves and skin and bones…. all fighting to feel and breathe and survive. I see young people in their awkwardness, then look in the mirror at my own. It's cyclical, the growing pains. We're all the same, you see. Just in different packages. Just in different stages. Stages of growth. Stages of damage. And we really are all damaged in some way…or another. Because being alive is tough. I used to get mad at it. "It" referring to the living, the fight, the struggle. I mean, I never asked to be born. I didn't volunteer for it. We didn't draw straws. No one stood in line for it. We were just plucked from our wherevers, thrown bare-assed into the world by our whoevers and expected to figure it out however. Yeah. Whatever. I'm trying to believe we're the lucky ones, perhaps even chosen ones. But then I see how much more damage has been done... to others, just struggling like you and me, when all they really want is to just feel good, like you and me. How is that even ok, the extra damaged cells, nerves, limbs, and heads… It is not ok with me. This life is tough enough. It's rough. 

I have a scar on the side of my forehead above my temple, #2 of 4. I was about 6 and we were playing on a tractor. I fell off the seat and cracked my head open on the tow-hitch. A lot of blood, 5 stitches and a giant ice cream cone later and I was right back out there playing. Some will struggle harder, I know. But some of us never stop.

I like to ask people if they have scars on their skin, their bones...Their shell. I like to hear their stories. It really is just a giant battlefield out there, and we? Courageous warriors. 

Because Like Oxygen, Music is Necessary for Breathing.

A couple of months ago I went to see a band called Enter the Haggis with my best friend. It's an Irish band. Well, a Canadian band playing Irish music. I did this reluctantly mind you, because I had listened to their new music online and I was like, oy… so too tired for this one. But she was all, "You're going to have 13 cats and die alone if you don't go.." or something like that. And I was all, "Yikes, I don't even want 13 cats". I get it. She was trying to get me out of the house and away from The Monkey's for a night. So I went. And was glad I did. I have to say, the band was friggin' great. So much better live than recorded. I mean, their chemistry was amazing. They engage with the crowd, are funny, and just ridiculously talented. I realize this sounds like a band review for The Westword or The Independent, but there was so much layering to it musically, that one can't help but try to grasp it all as it's happening. The oldest dude played the harmonica, a clarinet, the bagpipes, and the flute. (um, hi. The. Bagpipes.) And then one of the lead singers played the electric guitar, fiddle and keyboards… the other lead singer played two different acoustic guitars and an electric guitar… The bass player was friggin' killer, and the drummer could shake the rattle-sounding thing and still keep drumming with his left hand while doing so. Lord almighty. There are reasons women love band members so much, I tell you what. And we all have our favorites too. I have a friend who loves bass players. Even blurted out she plays bass too, just for the opportunity to talk to one once. She doesn't actually play the bass… I have a friend who loves drummers so much the lead character in one of her books is one. My sister and I love lead singers. We always want the lead singer to be singing directly to us, and only us. I have had lead singers sing to me before. It is no joke. To be singled out in front of a crowd like that? Heaven. Nothing beats that shit. Actually, I'm partial to drummers too. The skill and coordination and rhythm alone can drive a girl crazy to watch. Especially because they usually take their shirt off at some point during the night. All of which creates quite a visual of what the drummer might be like in other, um, circumstances. But that's for a totally different kind of blog. *wink*

But the coolest thing about this band is that all their songs tell a story. And when I listen to music, it's the lyrics I pay most attention to first, then how the melody supports it. i guess it's because I can't articulate how I feel about stuff like life and the world around us. I mean, I can, you're reading it, but it's not as brief-but-powerful as a song is. I've written tons of poetry and prose, and when I'm into the groove of writing I can be descriptive, and sometimes even move a reader. But my words are nothing like the lyrics I have heard. I actually think people should have their own soundtracks on a daily basis. Like, for different points of the day, there's a song representing it in the background. And at some point, perhaps even some back up singers (she said… back-up singers, doo-whop doo-whop-she-bop) … And I think everyone has a song. Perhaps more than one, that kinda fits who they are. I always thought if I could have a song played at my funeral it would be "Guaranteed" by Eddie Vedder. I mean, Eddie Vedder is a poet to me. His lyrics are always thought-provoking, story-telling, and lately, just simply poetic. The lyrics to Guaranteed are more self-describing for him I think. Fairly simple. I identify with them. And of course it has a beautiful melody with an acoustic guitar to just make it a perfect little song. It's hard for me to tell people why I move around so much. Aside from the searching thing, it's just the "free" in me I guess, and this song is about just that.

Through the years I've asked the musicians I know, which comes first, the music or the lyrics. And the answer is usually both. Meaning, sometimes it's a guitar riff in the head that turns into the music/melody and the lyrics come after. Sometimes it's lyrics which can create their own melody for them. Sometimes it's both relatively at the same time. Makes sense to me. I have no idea what it takes to write music. That is SUCH an amazing gift and talent. I can't get my head around it to be honest. But I have written a lot of words. I've realized one of the reasons I identify with the Counting Crows so much is because my writing style is so very similar to the way Adam Duritz writes his lyrics. They're almost conversational at times. Or at least the older stuff was. 

So, tell me… What's your song? and why? What song would you want played at your funeral? I'm so totally interested in hearing. Music is so personal. I don't know a single person who doesn't love music. Or who doesn't use or need music. I listen to it when I work, paint, run and especially when I drive. I have to drive fairly far to work a few days a week, and then back to the beach every weekend, so I use that time to listen. I mean really listen. Sometimes I'll even hit replay to one song that I am particularly connecting with at that moment. One song for an hour or more, straight. This week's power-replay song was "Civilian" by Wye Oak. And today in particular it was "Disparate Youth" by Santigold. Sometimes you have to listen to a song like 80 times to get it out of your system. Until the next time you hear it, of course.

What was the first song you learned to sing? Mine was "Bobby McGee" written by Kris Kristofferson and Fred Foster, but most notoriously sung by Janis Joplin. I was probably four years old when my Mom taught me that song. It's been our song since. She paved the road for most of my musical tastes growing up and I'm so thankful for that. I remember one time when I was a teenager, my Mom and I were out shopping and we picked up a copy of Janis's greatest hits and played it when we got home in the living room. A bit loudly. And two minutes into it "Turn that shit off!" comes wafting from the other room from my Father. We turned it down and kept right on singing. 

Lastly, if there was ever anything I wished I could do well, it would be to sing. I can carry a limited tune, but I mean, I wish I could really sing… I sing in the car all the time, and even tried singing Bobby McGee at karaoke once. It was an utter nightmare. Main reason being that I have a hard time with crowds and talking to people I don't know, so getting in front of them pushed me too far out of my comfort zone. Once I got up there, I wanted to die. So, I just did what every other self-respecting introvert would do in that situation. I turned my back to the crowd, shut my eyes and sang my heart out.