June 2011

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What a perfect summer day sounds like…

“Transform” –   T.J. Rehmi

“Morning Has Broken” – Cat Stevens

“Easy” – The Commodores

“Rough Rock & Pinon” –  Zachary J. Mechlem

“Lost in My Mind” –  The Head and The Heart

“1952 Vincent Black Lightning” – Richard Thompson (the awesome inspiration)

“American Girl” – Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers

“Tempted” – Squeeze

“In a Big Country” – Big Country

“I Feel for You” – Chaka Khan

“Boogie on Reggae Woman” – Stevie Wonder

“Places to Go” – 50 Cent

“Make Some Noise” – Beastie Boys

“Tunic” – Sonic Youth

“Ceremony” – New Order (thinking of you, Bridget and Jessica!)

“Praise You” – Fat Boy Slim

“Waltz for Koop” – Koop

“Sail to the Moon” – Radiohead

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Ablaze

It is not revolutions and upheavals that clear the way to new and better days, but someone’s soul, inspired and ablaze.

Boris Pasternak

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Afternoon, friends.  How are you this fine Wednesday?  I am well, and, I think, officially middle aged.  Is forty middle aged?  Or does the saying, “Fifty is the new forty” mean I’ve got ten more years?  Oh bother.  I’m forty, four-zero, shaken-not-stirred, straight-no-chaser (a la Thelonious Monk), with new wrinkles to prove it!  Seriously, I think the skin on my face lost a millimeter or two of elasticity in the last two weeks.  And here I thought I was Ms. Fancy Pants!

As I am not a super celebratory kind of gal, we had a yard sale on the big day, which was, now that I think about it, a bit of a party.  We chatted it up and had laughs with many neighbors, strangers, and friends.   The hubster and I shared high-fives and danced a couple of jiggety-jigs after getting rid of quite an accumulation of stuff we no longer needed, also freeing a rather large portion of our basement from a cumbersome burden.

This included nearly our entire CD collection (we’ve gone digital!), which, at times, made me a little misty-melancholy, as someone put a rather fine selection into their purchase pile and my mind traveled to places we’d been together: driving in my 1981 Toyota Celica listening to Joy Division, chilling on the sofa to Miles Davis, singing at the top of my voice to the Doors and Rolling Stones.  Ahh, nostalgia.

To to top it off, the peonies are blooming (hello Coral Charm!) and we partook of some Late Night Snack, the very yummy Jimmy Fallon flavor from Ben and Jerry’s.  Salty and sweet, creamy and crunchy, it is a perfect flavor and texture combination.  I expect nothing less from Mr. Fallon.

So, forty feels fine: older, wiser, sillier, more supple, yet obstinate, too.  How are you?

More

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life.  It turns what we have into enough, and more.

Melody Beattie

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Eleven years ago, I said goodbye to a friendship I’d had since I was twelve years old.  We met sitting on the wall in front of our junior high, the popular hang out spot before school, the place for strutting, posturing, proving.  She had one of the most beautiful smiles I’ve ever known and perfectly styled hair.  She was funny, too, using physical gestures and silly sounds to make a point.  We became better friends in ninth grade English and were practically inseparable during high school, meeting up between classes and spending hours on the telephone.  Mostly, we drove and drove, through neighborhoods near and far, back roads and ill used highways, looking, seeing, wondering, and examining all that matters to two young girls: boys, clothes, hair, school, parents, music.  We stole away after long shifts at restaurants, smelling of grease and Italian food, to spend hours up Boulder Canyon or at the Denney’s where we both ate salads and she chewed on ice, me filling her glass with mine.  There was nothing I couldn’t tell her.

I met the hubster because of her.  She was his next door neighbor in the dorms and the reason I went to the hotel kegger where he and I talked and talked that first night.  She met a man shortly before I got married, and they lived together while finishing school.  I never really liked him.  Though he was smart and handsome, he had a very subtle unkindness to him, belittling her in small ways.  Though I never mentioned a word to her about it, it eventually got to her, too.  I felt such relief.  My friend would find someone better, kinder, softer, and I told her as much. I loved her, and she deserved the best.

Probably a year after that, she told me they got back together.  It had been six months. My stomach caught at the thought that she kept it from me for that long, but what I really wanted was her happiness, someone to treat her well.  I wanted her to have what I did (and do), that friend, that complement, that indescribable perfection, a true partner.  That he wanted to be this man for her was wonderful, as long as it was true.

Maybe she didn’t believe me, or maybe it was something else, some other wrong I could not right without the knowledge of it passing.  Our relationship started to change.  We were both busier.  We spoke more and more sporadically and saw each other even less.  She canceled important plans at the last moment or forgot them altogether. Yet I didn’t see it coming, the crisp white envelope, return address with only her first name: a wedding announcement, wishing I could have been there.  The problem was I hadn’t been invited.  I bought a gift and wrote a letter that I never sent, my heart too badly bruised.

Until recently, whenever my mind wandered to a place where she was, I felt this heart shaped regret that I should have remained silent.  Silence, unlike words, is without regret, as the saying goes.  But I’ve come to realize that same silence carries substantially more weight, and is far more burdensome than words ever could be.  It’s a slow acting poison, each obfuscation rendering a micro dose of spirit killer.  Truth is my modus operandi, though I have paid dearly for this authenticity.

Our beautiful friendship ran its course.  I did the best I could.  She did the best she could.  No regrets remain.

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