Sunday, July 21
"to own the space around my ears and into my heart"
It occurs to me that what I need more of in my life is music. Not more sleep, not a cleaner house, not a slighter ass or more time to write or practice yoga or to even want to have sex. Not more help, not less crumbs and dog and cat hair on the floor or a freaking half-hour window of time in which to vacuum the floor--no. Music. Loud, ache-releasing, cathartic, make-me-want-to-jump-and-run music. Songs from the 80s when I was still young and fresh and more myself than I might ever be again, something pure and true as first light. Or rainy-afternoon soft, cry-in-the-shower tender songs holding me gently like a safe open palm. My days are "mama-mama-mama" and oh shit he's crying again and the volume on the lowest of low but still I can hear the inane alphabetizations of LeapFrog and I swear they make me dumber as they are, no doubt, making him smarter. What sounds, in all of this, are my own? This occurs to me on Sunday afternoon as I cut up fruit for the week--cantaloupe pineapple watermelon--and own the kitchen with my knife skills and shaking honest-to-goddess luscious ass. MUSIC. Like I forgot in all this mess to turn on the soundtrack to my own life. I need to turn it up. Put my stamp on the day. Own the space around my ears and into my heart. Music. Yes.
Linking up with Christina Rosalie's Just One Paragraph.