Kind of randomly, I added the Fleetwood Mac song "Go Your Own Way" to a mix CD I made over the weekend.
I was listening to the mix in the car last night and this morning. Each time "Go Your Own Way" came on, I had the same flush of happiness that I have experienced every single time I have heard that song since I was a little, tiny kid.
I was maybe three or four. We were in my mom's old Vega at the A&P at Scot's Corners. This song came on. She said, "Do you want to go fast?"
I said yes.
And then she drove fast (or, what seemed like really fast to a toddler) behind the back side of the strip mall.
Every time I hear this song, I think of that. I think of freedom and breaking rules and having fun. It makes me feel happy and truly alive.
(This is all really ironic, considering the subject matter and lyrics of the song.)
Monday, January 26, 2015
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Nostalgia
Yesterday, I got completely side tracked for HOURS when I saw a link to a comprehensive history of every game my league has ever played and wanted to help make sure all the details were right. I combed through my own game history and staffing polls and lineup spreadsheets. And then I went flipping through my calendar month by month for the last several years.
Starting about four years ago, I put pretty much everything in my Gmail calendar. Dentist appointments and hair cuts and reminders to put the trash out. Visits to the vet, reminders to drop the car off at the mechanic or to make something for a potluck at work. Recurring reminders to pay bills each month. Practices. Games. The birthdays of every person I hold dear. I page through my calendar all the time.
But I'd never looked at such a long period of my life through the lens of this calendar before. I saw all the notations about adventures, movie dates, concerts. Book launches. Random dinners and lunches and brunches with friends. Meetings with the writing partner who lives nearby. Dates to talk on the phone or have a virtual write-a-thon with the writing partner who lives far away. All those obstacle 5Ks. Trips home.
And then this morning, I was digging through all my writing emails, looking for the query letter that got me some interest from an agent on the first book I wrote (which still lies on this computer needing a fairly significant rewrite). And I found all these old emails I'd forgotten I'd saved and tagged as being related to writing -- sometimes mine specifically, but not always. There was an email with a transcript of a G-chat with my writing partner during a particularly difficult time that turned into both of us virtually laughing our asses off. There were emails where I argued with another writer friend about why we do what we do.
I often say that I am generally happy with my life, and that I am oh so lucky to have had so many great adventures and to have such incredible people in my life. It's true. But all this nostalgia as I went through my calendar yesterday and those emails today really just left me awash in this intense feeling of gratitude.
There have been a lot of really crappy times in my life the last several years (not the least of which has been dealing with so many losses of people I love). But the thing is, there have also been so very many beautiful and fun and creative and exhilarating times, too.
It makes me want to give these epic, long, squeeze-y hugs to all the people who played a part in those good moments. But for now, I'll settle for this:
Thank you. Sending you so much love. And then even more.
Starting about four years ago, I put pretty much everything in my Gmail calendar. Dentist appointments and hair cuts and reminders to put the trash out. Visits to the vet, reminders to drop the car off at the mechanic or to make something for a potluck at work. Recurring reminders to pay bills each month. Practices. Games. The birthdays of every person I hold dear. I page through my calendar all the time.
But I'd never looked at such a long period of my life through the lens of this calendar before. I saw all the notations about adventures, movie dates, concerts. Book launches. Random dinners and lunches and brunches with friends. Meetings with the writing partner who lives nearby. Dates to talk on the phone or have a virtual write-a-thon with the writing partner who lives far away. All those obstacle 5Ks. Trips home.
And then this morning, I was digging through all my writing emails, looking for the query letter that got me some interest from an agent on the first book I wrote (which still lies on this computer needing a fairly significant rewrite). And I found all these old emails I'd forgotten I'd saved and tagged as being related to writing -- sometimes mine specifically, but not always. There was an email with a transcript of a G-chat with my writing partner during a particularly difficult time that turned into both of us virtually laughing our asses off. There were emails where I argued with another writer friend about why we do what we do.
I often say that I am generally happy with my life, and that I am oh so lucky to have had so many great adventures and to have such incredible people in my life. It's true. But all this nostalgia as I went through my calendar yesterday and those emails today really just left me awash in this intense feeling of gratitude.
There have been a lot of really crappy times in my life the last several years (not the least of which has been dealing with so many losses of people I love). But the thing is, there have also been so very many beautiful and fun and creative and exhilarating times, too.
It makes me want to give these epic, long, squeeze-y hugs to all the people who played a part in those good moments. But for now, I'll settle for this:
Thank you. Sending you so much love. And then even more.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Death is your gift
In the last year, there have been probably a dozen posts I've started, got a paragraph or two or three into and deleted because I couldn't figure out a way to tie all the random thoughts together. This was going to be one (and maybe it should be), but maybe it's okay to open the window on the jumbled stuff in my head, too:
I've had a mighty productive morning, considering I am still wearing pajamas and have brushed neither my teeth nor hair.
I read a couple short books (Maurice Sendak's My Brother's Book; Neil Gaiman's Make Good Art; and The 13 Clocks by James Thurber); got my W-2 and promptly filed my taxes; shredded a bunch of stuff that's been sitting around for literally YEARS waiting to be shredded; organized the recycling (including all the shredded paper) to be dropped off at the EcoMaine trailer; put away a bunch of stuff in the storage area downstairs; sorted through a bunch of stuff in the junk pile on the kitchen counter. I found this CD I'd labeled "Death is your gift." I recognized it as a line from Buffy (which, coincidentally, I'm rewatching on Netflix right now), but I had no idea what was on it. I shoved it in my laptop and recognized that it's a mix of songs I had a hard time listening to around the time Mom died and afterward as well as other songs that remind me of loss. It's actually a great mix:
And as I complete these concrete tasks that make me feel some sense of productivity and accomplishment, which makes it feel almost okay to avoid the query letter, I catch the line from blink-182's "Ghost on the Dance Floor" that always stops me -- it's like the universe has left me without a place to go.
Do other people feel like that? Because I do. All the time.
I've had a mighty productive morning, considering I am still wearing pajamas and have brushed neither my teeth nor hair.
I read a couple short books (Maurice Sendak's My Brother's Book; Neil Gaiman's Make Good Art; and The 13 Clocks by James Thurber); got my W-2 and promptly filed my taxes; shredded a bunch of stuff that's been sitting around for literally YEARS waiting to be shredded; organized the recycling (including all the shredded paper) to be dropped off at the EcoMaine trailer; put away a bunch of stuff in the storage area downstairs; sorted through a bunch of stuff in the junk pile on the kitchen counter. I found this CD I'd labeled "Death is your gift." I recognized it as a line from Buffy (which, coincidentally, I'm rewatching on Netflix right now), but I had no idea what was on it. I shoved it in my laptop and recognized that it's a mix of songs I had a hard time listening to around the time Mom died and afterward as well as other songs that remind me of loss. It's actually a great mix:
- View from Heaven - Yellowcard
- Hope There's Someone - Antony and the Johnsons
- I Will Follow You Into the Dark - Deathcab for Cutie
- Ghost on the Dance Floor - blink-182
- A Lifetime - Better Than Ezra
- I Miss You - blink-182
- (Coffee's for Closers) - Fall Out Boy
- Shake it Out - Florence + the Machine
- How to Save a Life - The Fray
- Paul's Song - Jessica Campbell and Bullet
- Lay Me Down - The Frames
- In the Sun - Joseph Arthur
- Heartbeats - Jose Gonzalez
- Winter - Joshua Radin
- The Cave - Mumford & Sons
- Forgiveness - Patty Griffin
- Breathe Me - Sia
- Everything'll Be Alright (Will's Lullaby) - Joshua Radin
- Life is Beautiful - Vega4
And as I complete these concrete tasks that make me feel some sense of productivity and accomplishment, which makes it feel almost okay to avoid the query letter, I catch the line from blink-182's "Ghost on the Dance Floor" that always stops me -- it's like the universe has left me without a place to go.
Do other people feel like that? Because I do. All the time.
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