Oh my God, yesterday.
I woke up in a mother-funk from an intense night of dreaming and healing whatever my subconscious was traveling through.
(Isn’t it crazy how that works?)
My house was ready to get up too. I usually like a full hour to myself, but I was an hour too late, so I started my coffee. My bones felt older than usual. I thought about my father. When I was a teenager I used to watch him wake up around the kitchen, rubbing his joints and moving so slowly.
“He’s so old,” I used to think.
And then I felt her real good. My eighteen-year-old self.
Remember Tiffany when you used to dance out of bed? When you were in college and got up before God to go sit under the willow tree and pray for your light to shine, shine, shine on that college campus?
I was in the ministry then. Ambitious, for sure. But pure-hearted and unstoppable. Wide-eyed. In love.
Where did all her energy go?
My French press was ready and so were my kids, for breakfast which I suddenly didn’t feel like making.
The fog, the fog.
Today’s a day to love yourself, Tiffany. Take it nice and easy. Let your body relax into the magic of slow.
I went outside with my oversized mug and notepad to write down my dream. It started with a mama gremlin and a baby gremlin and a suitcase that was leaking from its gremlin juice.
I didn’t feel like googling that one.
What I did feel like doing was tuning out, amazon-ing for new curtains, going to a hot spring, not feeling anything.
Instead I went to the gym and had a foggy workout and went to get soup in the 90 degree heat. (It was good soup, delicious soup!) And for a solid hour, I sat there sipping and listening to a table of four 70-somethings talk. They were so happy, sitting at the table like that. I created a story in my head about how simple their lives were. How they clipped recipes about coffee rubs for their pork roasts and shared which prescriptions were working for what. How their garden was doing. What day their next appointment was.
Later, I called my sister who’s in recovery. She led, for the first time, in her meeting that night. In a room full of total strangers, some in their first 28 days, she cracked open her heart and let her pain pour out in the valley of that circle. I sat on my front porch with my phone to my ear, crying the whole time, in awe of her, in awe of us, since we share the same beginning.
I looked to the sky. Floating across it were two double heart clouds – two dark shadows against the big, fluffy white storm cloud. Our hearts. Our story.
That’s when I heard the music.
Not like actual music. A car didn’t cruise by with the windows rolled down playing Freedom or I Will Survive. But it was sharp and clear and the fog stepped aside to let it through.
I heard my kids inside playing and the dogs scraping the front door to come outside with me on the porch. I heard the older people at the table from earlier sipping soup and chatting about recipes. I heard my sister. I heard my husband. I heard my heart’s aching to take all of this in and take it in deep so that it could become something beautiful.
My healing story and my fiery passions – this music – doesn’t have to be heard by the whole world or excitable people sitting around in the marketplace. It doesn’t have to be a bestseller or a Ted talk. I don’t give a rat’s ass about monetizing it for more ‘power, passion and profit’.
I just want to crack open my heart and let it pour out. So that I can hear it. So that my life can be beautiful.
And for all of us: what if we cared less about the direction of the music and more about its source, its purity, its liveliness?
What if we asked ourselves every time we opened our mouths to speak, write, or update our FB status: does this bring life? Does this add more beauty to the world? Is this my story or someone else’s?
What kind of music might we make?
Make it beautiful,
PS. If you want something to inspire you in your music-making, I made this for you.