Five thirty am. Fresh coffee, Blu the bunny and I start our day quietly on the sofa.  Blu loves attention so I appease him while I write.

My intention was to write goals, count my blessings and maybe write a mission statement. Blu has other ideas.  His mission is for my attention and he is making it difficult to concentrate. He is hard to deny now that he has maneuvered himself onto the back of the sofa intermittently bumping me with his nose and pawing my shoulder. His name is Blu but Relentless would have suited him well.  He finally resorts to tugging on the lapel of my robe. When he gets his way (which is often) I am rewarded with itty bitty bunny kisses and rapturous teeth clicking.

I finally abandon my task and surrender to his wishes.  He leans into my hand eyes shut tight.  He loves it.  I bury my face into his fur that is so soft it is otherworldly.  Kissing his tiny neck and ears he distends into uncontrollable clicks.  It is satisfying for us both.  He has won. His mission accomplished. 

Settling into my fate I began to ponder.  Maybe Blu is right.  Maybe this is a much better way to share these wee hours.  It’s miracle of trust from this fragile animal with the heart of a lion. He is a study in how self confidence and persistence pay big dividends. 

After a few minutes I feel more rested and at peace then after a full nights sleep.  If I had gotten right to work, I would has missed this moment of magic. And really what is most important than that? 

Thanks Blu.

The Covid.  I got it.  I didn’t  know that’s what was going on as I tuffed it out throuh gigs this weekend.  I thought I was battling allergies. But the allergy meds weren’t marketing a dent.  Thankfully, I played outside and at least 20 ft from people. But I felt like crap and it only got worse.  I have asthma. So, I take Covid or seasonal aliments seriously.  And, not that I need to explain, as an independent artist there are no paid days off. Anyway, so it’s Thursday today been watching TV for four days! I know the history of Mary Poppins, Scotland, learned about all the places I will take my friends in Europe should I reach the level of success my vivid imagination congers.  I no longer have any fever but still feeling a bit puny regardless. When I found out (via a drug store test) that I actually had covid, I bowed out of a few events I had agreed to attend.  I hated to cancel because I made a commitment to myself years ago that I would be a person of integrity, that would, at the very least, show up when I said I would. Also, keep ALL promises to my daughter, that’s another story.  In this case, I had to cancel for my sake as well as others.   

To back up a minute, I work sort of in a vacuum.  I write my songs.  Learn cover songs usually based on audience requests.  Drive around and book gigs.  The first gig is the hardest. Once I play it’s a matter of scheduling.  I think of the audience as kindred souls the universe has brought together to share a moment.  I do what I am supposed to do they experience it in the way they need.   So having sad that, much to my complete surprise I received emails and texts from audience members asking if I was alright and that they were very much looking forward to seeing me again. I have always been uncomfortable with the term “fans”.  Fans feels cold to me.  Distant and impersonal.  Those are not the folks that come to my gigs.  I know their stories.  They inspire songs.  They tip because they are super cool but also because they know it’s how I support myself and my daughter.  They know she just got in cheer.  They know it’s expensive.  They are part of our life and this crazy ride.    I also know their stories from sitting with them before and after the show.  We share these moments together.  I do what I do but couldn’t do it without them.  Fans.  Doesn’t feel right. This is a community.  Anyway, I was so touched by the reach out and check in. I am a single Mother, a songwriter and a friend.  I have a community of folks I will never think of as “fans”.  Oh no.  They are so much more.   So my friends,  I am on the mend.  I will be ready this weekend and so look forward to seeing you and hearing about your lives..  XO

It’s a magical spring afternoon.  I am sitting on my tiny porch listening to tracks from my new record.  No one outside of the studio team has heard them.  I listen in satisfaction because the musicians that brought life to my songs have done the most fantastic job. I have so much appreciation for the level of education and skill it takes to do this work. 

To even be in this moment is nothing short of miraculous.  So many years of hanging by a financial thread.  Counting tips on a wing and a prayer to make ends meet.  Somehow they always do. Still it’s been a cliff hanger month after month.

But today, I listen to what my hard work has done in the hands of musically capable and it gives me so much… peace.  

I am watching the tall grass and audacious poppies sway under the cerulean blue sky as I listen.  Everything seems in sync.  In this infinitesimal moment it seems it has been worth it. All the insane chances. All the ridiculous faith based on absolutely nothing. The door knocking. The song writing all alone in wee hours.  This private moment it is mine.  Just mine.  I have gotten this far for no reason beyond following the path I was given.  Right now, all alone, I feel complete.

I don’t know if anyone else will like it. I sing.  The music is honest. That’s enough for me.

The clouds were parting so I decided that it was a good time to run errands.  Driving along the coast the first time in the new year I watched the waves mightily splash like a bunch of wild-eyed boys crashing their bikes into piles of leaves. My windshield wipers lazily cleared the soft drizzle with a small squeak. The little valley and its velvety green hills quietly anticipated the bloom that would surely come. There was a newness in the air.  New Year Day is just another day, having said that, the world did feel new and full of possibilities. I pondered this as I coasted along.  

Then I saw it.  A full rainbow so dazzling it looked fake. The massive bow appeared to glide along the open field keeping up with me close enough to touch, then changed position before disappearing in my rearview.  I gave a quick thanks because it seemed appropriate. Following the flow of traffic, I went around the base of a hill and there was another one! Just as bold and beautiful as the first. A mile later another. Then a double! (I count that as one). When I got into town, I parked in a parking garage facing downtown and there over the cluster of the quaint buildings glistening from a fresh wash was another. 

I had to squint against the sunshine but didn’t try to dodge the sprinkles when weaving my way through our bustling community.  “Amazing.” I thought. Five rainbows in about 15 minutes.  What are the odds? What if this is an omen about the year to come?  I decided to believe that was the case. I mean why not?  Our life is so much how we decide to perceive it.  While my Converse squish swashed along the sidewalk a spur of the moment decision led me into my favorite cookie shop for a treat on this momentous day. I watched the rain fall and sparkle like confetti in the sunlight while I waited for my order. It can only mean there was another rainbow out there delighting someone somewhere.  I wondered for a second if they felt as I do about the dance of water and light.  I silently hoped so.  I exited the shop, cookie in hand and felt like the world was mine for the taking. Happy New Year to me!

My  daughter is going into high school!  How the heck did that happen?? Honestly it feels like she was born about two weeks ago.  Time is a bizarre thing when you have a child.  It warps and bends nonsensically. She is as spectacular as I could have ever imagined.  But can we just hit the brakes a minute? It’s too fast.  She is ready.  I am not. 

We used to go to Doc Bernstein’s Ice Cream after every gig to share what we called “singing money”.  Singing money was special money.  Ice cream paid for with singing money was even better than regular ice cream. She would do a little celebratory dance around the shop with her oversized scoop of birthday cake flavor in a giant waffle cone.  Her hair so often-in the style of total catastrophe framed a full jack-o’-lantern smile. Of course the look wasn’t completed without freshly dirtied knees. It never seemed to occur to her to be the slightest bit self conscious when she licked off the melted ice cream that dripped to her wrist. Who needed napkins? “When is your next gig Mom?” she would ask through an impish and sticky grin. It was impossible not to love every second of it.

Now thankfully singing money gets us much more than ice cream. That’s in the good change category. In the not so good category, Doc Bernstein’s is no longer. It recently went out of business and is still being mourned by the community. My daughter now prefers to be “tipped out” after every show.  Her appearance is immaculate on the worst of days. Starbucks and Lululemon are more interesting than ice cream. FaceTiming and giggling are numero uno on this summers schedule. Not gonna lie, the antics she and her friends get up to crack me up. Calls from the next room like “Hey Momma Ford, can we get pizza?” affect my heart like helium does a balloon. I love that her friends call me that.  They all know and have been told that as they get older and gain more freedom that I am a phone call away anytime day or night, no questions asked. I figure, I will question the poor decisions later when they are safe and hangover is fully peeking as applicable. (I might as well enjoy it). I remember craving an adult to feel that comfortable with as a teenager.  Safe, accepted and seen. Is there ever anything more important? Since being a teen feels like it was maybe a month or two ago, the feeling is easily accessed.

I am painfully aware that these days are just as precious and fleeting as any previously.  I treasure them as each bitter sweet moment passes.  Focusing on the positive, there is so much to look forward to.  Driver's license (God help me), graduation, college, first apartment. All good change.  

The purpose of every parent is to raise the best possible person to send into society. At first 18 years seems an unbelievably long time to carry the immense responsibility. Now as it creeps closer it seems ridiculously, if not irresponsibly, short. I know time will not make any exceptions for me but sometimes I wish it would.

Roy was a friend of mine almost 20 years ago. I hadn’t thought about him in awhile until he  came up in a recent conversation with a friend.  I am grateful to have had the opportunity to revisit this delicate chapter in my life. Sometimes I need distance to fully appreciate certain times, people and places.

Roy and I were unlikely friends. He was 50 years my senior and a scientist. I was one of thousands of struggling artists in west LA county. A coworker needed help with her father in the mornings to get him breakfast a few days a week and visit a bit as his health was failing due to the progression o f ALS. I agreed to meet him.  Seemed simple enough and extra money was especially welcome at the time.

All I knew about him, going into my first meeting, was that he was a renowned scientist known for calorie restriction. I purposely did not want to learn more about him until I met him. For me, someone’s eyes, voice and demeanor are more important than their accomplishments.

I glided down the boardwalk on my skateboard from Santa Monica to the edge of Venice.  Venice is a place that vibrates with and an unapologetic experimental approach to life. It was barely 8am but the cacophony of creativity had already begun.   Every shop and corner burst with colorful undulating flags, bandanas and t-shirts. Meditation music, rap and hard rock battled for the attention of the tourists. The air was already thick with endless aromas. Incense, sunscreen, marijuana and exotic food went from intoxicating to repulsive as they blended with abandon. I wove my skateboard  through the street musicians, contortionists and artists setting up for the day. Sometimes it was difficult to distinguish street performers from the junkies.  The junkies frequently regaled one another with spontaneous pontifications. That was one way to tell.

Following the directions I was given, I turned up an alley and found the back door to the address I was given. The back door was actually Roy’s front door. The property was originally adjoining storefronts facing the busy Pacific Ave. One was for research to continue his work.  Very serious looking people with flat expressions hunched over computers and ticked away at the keyboards in front of them.  The loft above stored what looked like, hard drives and other scientific data.

The adjoining identical space was his home. There was a modest kitchen and living room. The walls were haphazardly decorated with exotic art and treasures from around the world.  Mostly the room had books. Lots and lots of dusty books. Many of them translated into different languages were authored by Roy himself.  As I recall, one wall was floor to ceiling books.  The bottom half of another wall was lined with bookshelves heavy with literature.  There were stacks of books on the floor. Stacks of books on the side table, on the desk and counter. Threaded throughout the place were various colored straps connecting doorknobs to stairs or cupboards to chairs etc.  I wasn’t sure what I was looking at but fleetingly thought it might be some giant model of an obscure molecular system. I ducked under one strap on my way in.

In the middle of this unconventional space was Roy.  He was a small fragile man sitting in an high back office chair. Electric blue eyes as big as quarters fixed on me when I entered. His intelligence was palpable. The room was quiet but one got the impression the clamored energy of the boardwalk outside was a pale reflexion to the complexity of intellect buzzing inside this man’s head.

Lisa, Roy’s daughter, introduced us.  “Nice to meet you.” he mumbled taking my measure. His daughter excused herself disappearing into the business side of the building.

“Hi Roy, nice to meet you as well.  Have you read all these books?!”

“Yes.  Just not all at once.” He responded with a devilish glint in his spectacular eyes.

That was the first of millions of moments when I felt a kindred spirit in him.  I liked him immediately.

We began our mornings that day.  I nervously followed the smoothie recipe to the letter.  This was for science after all and important.  I did not want to be the weak link messing up a life time of study. Coffee with Drambuie or cognac were a common part of the routine.  Wasa bread with a thin smear of tahini was occasionally added as well.

I handed Roy his coffee.  He asked me to put it down on the counter while he reached for one of the straps.  I did as he asked then wasn’t sure what else I was supposed to do.  He slowly lifted himself using an orange strap that crossed the room and with meticulous precision walked himself hand over hand to the sofa.  He turned carefully and let himself half fall into a sit. I brought the coffee and sat next to him.  Even my untrained eye could see this was an massive effort for him. I also registered he was kind of proud of it.  “This is a better place to talk. So, I am told you are a musician.” 

“Um yea. I sing mostly but play so I can write and accompany myself.” I awkwardly explained.

“Wonderful. I play the keyboard and write songs too. I love all kinds of music.”

Off we went. Lost in conversation about types of music, when they evolved and what they represented in their time. How we wrote and what inspired us.  It felt like we could have talked for days. He had been friends with the likes of The Doors, The Beach Boys even Manhattan Transfer.  Much too soon my time to leave had arrived. I bid him goodbye and arranged with Lisa what days I would return.

Three to four mornings a week were Roy mornings.  I rode my skateboard to his back/front door and propped it against the wall just outside. I would start his breakfast even if the nurse hadn’t brought him down from his bedroom loft to his chair yet.   When he was ready he would eat and we would visit. In total I knew him less than two years but it didn’t take long to became genuine friends.  I told him all the band and work drama. All about the upcoming gigs and the challenges. We would giggle at his stories where he cast himself as a playboy. “Roy you dog!” I would exclaim with feigned disapproval. He especially loved these exchanges. He also really enjoyed when I would drag a string around so Swami his cat could chase it.  He adored the cat who was obviously spoiled. It was equally obvious Swami thought, as spoiled as he was, we could do better.

We rarely discussed his career. A few mentions of the Biosphere here and there. Usually this happened when a mysterious plaque engraved with his name appeared honoring him for his contribution to science. He wasn’t interested in these tokens anymore.  They languished gathering dust among the books. 

I learned how to use leverage to move him from chair to sofa when he became too weak to use the straps. I learned about feeding tubes and how to slowly feed his breakfast into it. We laughed that we didn’t have to stop talking now that he didn’t have to chew.  I could see his body shrinking. I learned to gently help him with his neck brace when his neck got so small it couldn’t hold his head properly. Speech became more challenging as well but we managed. Nothing took the light from his eyes.

Despite his declining health he managed to make it to a few of my shows. The curiosity was too much for him.  He had to see for himself the characters he had heard so much about. He came to one on the Santa Monica Pier. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to get his wheelchair across the tar soaked railroad ties.  But there he was smack in the front. He also made it the performing arts center. A nicer show with sets and an opening act.  He drank a martini from a straw looking dapper in his sport coat. Always the twinkle in his eye. 

One morning he was already in his chair when I arrived looking freshly bathed and bright. “Morning!” I called ready to start his breakfast. “Come here for a moment.” he said.  “I have something for us.”

“Something for us?” I was confused.

“I ordered the history of music.” He smiled.  There were dozens of VCR tapes with lectures from professors from all the top schools. Juilliard, Yale, NYU etc. The tapes started at prehistoric chants and rhythms. Covered how instruments were made and the theories as to why.  We quietly watched these lectures side by side all the way through the great composers to modern times. Talking had become more difficult for him. This is what took it’s place. I could start the tape only when I sat down with him.  We watched until it was time to leave. At the very last minute I would take out the tape and place it to the left of the TV in exactly the same place every day until I returned. 

“What do you think of Ragtime?” he asked as I placed the tape in the designated spot. “I love the cheerfulness of it.  Impossible not to want to dance right?” He agreed. “See ya Roy! You behave.” I teased as I rolled off to my next job.

There was a day in between that I didn’t see him.  I was working at the Westwood location of the yoga school when my cell rang.  It was Emily, the other woman who cared for Roy on my mornings off.  

“Has Lisa called you?” she asked.

“Oh, hey! Are we changing schedules?”

There was an ominous pause. “Roy died last night.” she said it plainly. I didn’t envy her position. It was the most economical way to handle it. My brain stopped working.  Nothing made sense. Surly I didn’t understand what she meant. She misspoke. I misheard. 

“Wait, what?” 

“He went into respiratory failure and they couldn’t revive him.  The brain damage was too great.”

A cold heartless reality began to sink in.  I hurriedly walked to the bathroom for privacy to continue the conversation. I asked all the questions.  What happened? When? Who was with him? Where was Swami?

Then the tears.  They wouldn’t stop. Emily stayed on the phone while the vampiric bite of grief took hold.  We all knew the day was coming but to happen so suddenly and completely was … there are no words. Finally after what seemed like a long time she told me Lisa was at Roy’s and I should go over to help in whatever way I could.  That it would be good for me.  She was headed there herself. 

I did.  It was good for me to feel helpful. Lisa was wise like her father.  

The place was a flurry of activity.  His chair wasn’t where it was supposed to be.  The moaning sound of a vacuum filled the place. His desk was cleared and organized.  The kitchen sink didn’t have his coffee cup in it. Everything was different in a way I didn’t like. I busied myself with the tasks she gave me but stopped in my tracks when I saw the VCR tape. Still in it’s designated place untouched. It wasn’t dusty like the things around it. It sat unfinished and pure like our friendship. I drew a long breath and kept moving. It was all I could do.

Many years later I can look back and remember detail like it just happened.  My memories of him are richly vivid.  We always knew our time was limited.  It made us pay attention to each other. Didn’t take anything for granted. What I didn’t grasp until just a few days ago was the gift he gave me.  He knew I didn’t finish college. He brought the best education from all the best universities to me and sat beside me while I learned. This was so Roy! He knew it would dawn on me long after he was gone. He gave me something that would last forever and could never be taken away.  Incredibly sweet forethought from a dying, brilliant and very busy man.

I miss our mornings. Ragtime always makes me think of you.

I didn’t get the chance to say it then Roy, but thank you.  For everything.

I haven’t made it back to my home town much since I moved away all those years ago.  I turned the key in my three cylinder Chevy Sprint and floored it outta there wind in my hair.  First to LA then New York and Nashville back to LA. Crisscrossing the country as often as needed to anywhere I could play music. 

Throughout Junior Highand High School I felt like an social outcast.  I was weirdly into music and theater. Mr. Maya, the drama teacher, told me one day that I walked to the beat of a different drummer.  It bothered me at the time because I wanted to fit in and be accepted.  But I knew he was right. I couldn’t help it. Eventually, I found friends in the theater community and the local rock band guys were cool to me.  The rocker guys were the ones who would show up to help fix a car tire, be a last minute prom date or drive me home after a gig. They always let me sing in their bands. Their houses were scattered around town. It was like having a big brother every few blocks. Of course my best friend was there and steady as a clock through it all.  Still, I had an unscratchable itch to leave as soon as possible. 

Fellow Gilroyan Mattie was one of my few girlfriends. She had the same itch to get out. She had a cutting edge fashion sense and white blonde mohawk.  The bitchin mohawk slid like a rudder back and forth behind the counter of the yogurt shop where we worked.  Mattie was the epicenter of cool in my view. She lived in the country and had a horse, also cool.  I called her when my rabbit had too many babies and was trying to discard them.  Mattie came over and helped me care for the baby bunnies. I was her hair model when she took her cosmetology test in San Francisco.  Her mother, Mattie and I stayed at the St. Francis Hotel and went to the Tonga Room for dinner. Her Mom was cool. We were roommates in LA. Twin beds in opposite corners of our shared room. She was a student at FIDM.  I worked as a temp and gigged at night. We floundered into adulthood together.  Broke and hopeful we dove into LA and all it’s possibilities.  

Now so many years later she has created the Poppy Jasper International Film Festival in our hometown. Thousands of creatives flock to it. The festival must bring millions in revenue as well to the hotels, shops and restaurants around town.

I reached out to her to let her know if she needed any help with music for her event, I would be happy to pitch in. I imagined playing quietly in a corner of a cocktail party.  She was a friend so whatever she wanted was good with me.  She had a different idea.  She included me in the band that played the festival party.  A surprisingly bad ass band.  All were seasoned pros which impressive resumes. All toured or recorded with familiar if not legendary artists. At rehearsal those of us who knew each other as kids reconnected.  We looked a little older but everyone was basically the same. It was a good feeling.  There are commonalities in areas that only those who have lived there would know and understand. Everyone in Gilroy knows what Gourmet Ally, Gilroy Gators ,Christmas Hill and Hecker Pass are.  They also know and when garlic is harvested and what that smells like in July. 

After rehearsal I drove around town not needing directions. I could get nearly anywhere blindfolded.

Throughout the weekend, it was especially gratifying when old classmates mentioned my Dad and what a nice man he was to them.  He had a remarkable way of making everyone feel seen and accepted when he teased them.  “Hey so and so!”  followed by a big laugh.  Often no one actually knew what he was laughing at but he was so engaging and seemly happy to see them they couldn’t help but laugh as well.  “Ah Ralph!  Good to see you.  Yes we are going to the Spaghetti Dinner at St. Mary’s.  Yes, we will see you there.  Sure we will save you a seat. (Awkward glance because they weren’t sure if he was kidding. He was.) No. We didn’t know about the sale on steak at Hank’s Super Save.  We will have stop by.” Here my Dad would make a joke that it was too late because he already got all the good ones.  More laughs. I stopped by his grave to give him some flowers and visit a bit. If he were alive he would have told me not to spend money on the flowers, but I did and I felt good about it.  I thanked him for being a good Dad and as a parent myself now I got it. Not all young girls had a good Dad.  I am grateful. 

The night of the party I saw Mattie.  Big hug. It was great to see each other.  We reaffirmed our friendship with a few short sentiments. The night had begun. She had to get to the stage and make in troductions and thank yous. 

While the band played I heard people calling “Cindy! Cindy!”  A sure sign I was in Gilroy.  I haven’t been called that in a very long time. I waved at familiar faces. I stood next to Randy.  He was a few years older and has gone on to much success, definitely a hometown hero, but we ran in the same musical circles as youngsters.  Together we playfully survived the set. (The set is another blog entry in itself.) Mattie, Randy, the band and I were able to visit at the after party til early the next morning. Fun evening all around.

There is something about being with people from your home town. So much you don’t have to explain. We all knew each other when we were insecure and gawky.   Yearbook pictures can’t be used as blackmail because were are all in it.  Some of us left and came back. Some never left. But there we were celebrating Mattie’s  massive achievement. She brought us together in her own unique way. Nowadays she is sans mohawk, but still the very essence of cool. 

  I am no expert that’s for sure. In my most humble opinion it is a gift. A gift, if we truly choose to receive it, that stays forever. Even when we pass to the next …. whatever is next. I believe we carry it with us. I believe we also leave it with others. 

I believe there are many different kinds. Like in friendship, self, romantic, parent/child, for what you love to do for work, adventure, literature, art, etc. It really is all around if we pause for a second to breathe.

Recently I was in Santa Monica for a short trip. I felt a deep resounding love for the place where I basically became an adult. The street corners I walked around in good times and bad. The bungalow where I thought I found love, more than once, where my daughter was born and took her first steps and where I cried when my Father died. Where I wrote so many songs while gazing out the window at the rose bushes that bobbed in the ocean breeze. Can’t count the times I sat on the porch of that creaky little house and marveled at my luck to live in such a place. I didn’t mind that it was tiny and slightly dilapidated, it felt like home. I loved it there. 

Lifelong friends are a spectacular gift. I have had the same best friend since I was 8 yrs old. We don’t even need to speak to hear each other. We will start giggling at the same time without a word spoken. She knows if I am sad, nervous, excited. She just knows. Always has. The friendships I made in Santa Monica are still deep, only now time has seasoned them with compassion and shared history. Laugher comes fast and heartily. Inside jokes delightfully effortless. Forgiveness and patience ever present and comfortably assumed. The friends who sat with me during my darkest hours to date and never mentioned my swollen face but found words of kindness and hope. It was my privilege to reciprocate when it was their turn for life to douse them in disappointment or heartbreak. I can’t imagine a better definition of love. 

Music has been my longest most consistent love. Always there to vibrate into my heart and heal, understand, celebrate or dream. Music carries me to wherever I want or need to go. Conundrums become clear then fade into inspiration. I was blessed to be given the ability to participate in creating it. It has taken me on the most wondrous adventures. There can never be a bad time for music. Music is always a good idea.

I love the rain. Californian’s celebrate the rain like it’s a miracle falling from the sky.  For us it kind of is. After so many years of drought it feels magical and rare. The golden state becomes green. It gives us a sense of hope and renewal. Then on day 3 generally Californians are over it. Time for sunshine, surfing, skateboarding and coffee outside at a favorite out of the way spot. But not me. The more the better! Bad hair seems a small price to pay for the cool drops on my face. Some of my friends joke that I must have been a duck in my last life. I do so love the rain. 

Unconditional love. That’s simple. My daughter gets that. She gets all of it. One of the most courageous and kind people I have ever encountered. She is an old soul in beautiful packaging. I endeavor everyday to soak her up while she is still under my stewardship. I never felt she was mine per se more that I was here as a guide to facilitate her life’s journey. I have followed her lead regarding her interests. When she was about 2 years old she was fascinated by seaweed. We looked up all the kinds of seaweed and what animals might live in and around it. We first looked on the internet then marched with purpose to the library to read about it in books. We did get sidetracked once or twice reading about mermaids and sharks but that didn’t last long. We were on a mission. One afternoon, miniature pink backpack in place stuffed with an emergency juice box, magnifying glass, sandwich baggies (for specimens). Pig tails high and tight we were off to discover what was what on the beach. Priceless memories. These and many others I will take with me when I go. There may be no guarantees in life but one thing is for certain, I will be the first one on the other side when she passes to the next realm to greet her and make even more memories. 

OK romantic love….. I have no idea…. I gave it the ole college try as they say. I am not a quitter but I am not sure romance is what it’s all about. I will try share what I think love might be between two people. 

Trust comes to mind first. To completely trust someone and be honorable enough to be trusted. This means a leveling up from my past. Naiveté ran the show then. I thought, If I trusted and loved then obviously it would be reciprocated. “Love is patient. Love is kind.“ 1 Corinthians 13:4-8. I’ve heard this passage at nearly every wedding I ever went to. I believed it. Lived by it. Just one more week, month, year. I need to be more patient. I could always work on being more kind. It doesn’t say anything about trust. It sort of dances around it but does not say so explicitly. For me trust looks like this… mostly… it’s a work in progress. Speak kindly and honestly. Speak your truth even if, especially if, you don’t know how it will be received. Speak in a way that is soft to hear. Speak it out loud to only the one who needs to hear it. This takes some courage but I believe it is essential. 

Vulnerability. Love even if it’s scary. Say it. Say it in words. Show it in actions. Be responsible with it when speaking to others. I don’t know about you but to love someone again could possibly be the most terrifying thing there is. To allow your heart to be exposed to the point it could be broken and taken advantage of is not an easy task. To allow all, I mean all, of your shortcomings to be exposed to one person is breathlessly risky. My heart races a bit just writing about it. But there is nothing worth having that is without risk. I believe playing it cool or safe is an arrogance that flies in the face of life’s greatest gift.

Intimacy. Sex is the first thing most men I encounter think of regarding intimacy. For me it is that, but also belly laughing, slow dancing in the shower, pillow talking, hand holding and that epic glance across a room. The one where time stands still and you both know. I’ve got you. I choose you. You are my friend and lover. I don’t know if I will experience that kind of love but I do believe it exists. That will have to do for now. 

I have been truly blessed with an abundance of all kinds loves. Would I go back and change anything? Maybe a few things. But I wouldn’t have learned the lessons I learned nor have the visceral appreciation for what I believe is possible.

 Everyone kept telling me to join a dating site.  The very thought repulsed me so I avoided it.  I thought I would meet someone if it was meant to be and that would be that.  As time/years went by it wasn’t happening.  I continued to hear the echos from my friends.  “Just join a site.”  Ugh!

Also, being weirdly private (strange I know seeing as I am a performer) I loathed the idea of entering personal infomation into a site.  I could go on and on why I was resisting this. Finally one day my daughter said I should and she knew of a site everyone talks about. She took my phone and at a blistering pace she nimbly tapped the screen.  In less than three minutes I had a profile with pictures and witty phrases captioned below. A month membership. That’s it!  Not one minute more I said.

Within 6 hours I had 150 connections.  Wow!  This was amazing! For a hysterical second of insanity I was feeling pretty good about myself. I sat a little straighter, held my head a little higher. They were right.  I can admit it. I am at least that evolved.  

Tentativly, I scrolled through. At first glance it appeared no one owned a shirt and were remarkably bad at selfies.  Almost all of the pictures were from the chin down. I clicked on a few “connections”.

The first caption I read said, and this is an exact quote…”Mike. I’m married for 20+ years but looking for some adventure. I’m totally straight (interested in women only) but I love to cross dress and would totally adore having a girlfriend who is turned on by that.  I know it narrows the field…”

Um yea, kinda.

Next guy, no shirt but boldly showed his face in the bathroom selfie.  His intro simply read. “Well hung. Straight shooter.”

I was out!!! All the way out!  Deleted my profile on the spot.  

Digusted, grossed out and horrified I shared my experience with my friends who found the entire thing side splittingly funny. “OMG that’s the wrong site!” they wheezed..

“Ya think?!”

I have since, dispite myself and still dreading it, joined another site.  So far I have met some decent, mercifully normal chaps with all their teeth. 

We’ll see what happens.

It had been a long year and a half. I was more than excited to see my mother, cuddle with pets and see friends. (friends as in friends are the family you choose kind of friends). These friends literally saved us when we had nowhere to go. The friends that showed up every time! The friends who held us, cried with us, inspired us to keep going and gave me enough space to heal and find the music inside me again. These are no ordinary friends.

So, as I packed I daydreamed of laughing ourselves to tears and the gloriously rich food we would reconnect over. I simply couldn’t wait to see everyone. But something was off. I just wasn’t feeling myself. I thought I just need a good nights sleep as that usually fixes me right up.

Upon arrival, in an abundance of caution, I decided to take a Covid test. Sitting in my friends giant truck, outside of Walgreens, I shook my head in disbelief as the vibrant pink lines declared themselves. I had Covid! I had been vaccinated four times but it still got me. I would have to put off seeing my 83-year-old mother that was for sure! We quickly rearranged our plans. 

Instead of laughing, eating and cajoling with my friends, I found myself isolated in the same carriage house we were in nearly 3 years ago. Again a refuge, but under entirely different circumstances. Surrounded by the austere wintery trees it was quiet and peaceful. Chilly breezes wrapped around the warm sanctuary I was nestled in. It was the perfect place to battle the illness and recover. My daughter stayed in the main house with her best friend in Georgia, so she was happy. I slept, coughed and caught up on all things Netflix.

Nearly a week into my visit, I watched via FaceTime as my mother and daughter opened gifts Christmas morning. I was feeling better but still cloudy and fatigued. I took another test just to see. Negative at last! Hurriedly, I pack my things and headed to family.

Christmas dinner was better than any of the recent past. Partly due to the fact that I thought I’d be having toast in the carriage house. It was fantastic to eat mom‘s cooking and watch recorded episodes of The Curse of Oak Island. The brain fog made the show almost spooky, but we managed to get through all episodes to date. An accomplishment of sorts. Equally wonderful to cuddle with animals who were sufficiently jealous of one another when getting attention. And of course, great to see friends. Albeit briefly, we did manage to get some good hearty  laughing in. Always worth it.

It wasn’t the trip I imagine, but it was healing. Literally.