Last week, a song eased its way out of my car's radio and pulled me to the curb, where I sat with my 14-year-old self, hunched over the turntable, my heart at my side. Never in my life had I imagined someone else would play Joni Mitchell's "Judgement of the Moon and Stars," especially on the airwaves.
I had thought this complicated, wrenching mess of a song was written just for me. It was my discovery, made all those years ago on the floor of my childhood bedroom. Hearing it again was like reading a long-lost diary, my toes dipping across the fence of time, my mind remembering how it felt to be me all those years ago. So in love was I with this song back then that, upon hearing it again, I have no idea if it's even good. I just know that it's mine.
I spent the last hour playing "For the Roses," the album that holds this song. It has been a fine hour indeed. Not only did Joni get me to clean the kitchen, but she helped realign my soul a bit.
Only a fool would label music as "entertainment."
Just yesterday, I sang myself home from a retreat set in the western hills of the Bohemian Alps, again finding myself in the company of old favorites. Crosby, Still, Nash and Holt had never performed better than we did on Highway 15, our harmonies tight, our joy obvious as it rushed its way out of my mouth. That Liz Phair and Aimee Mann could join us for a song or two? Icing on the cake.
I fall in love with song just like I fall in love with people--completely, hopelessly, joyfully. And my patience for those notes and words and voices is limitless. In the midst of my musical reverie, I think of nothing else except the satisfaction I'll get in pushing the "replay" button in three and a half minutes and doing it all over again.
My voice was raw by the time I got to Lincoln. But my heart was full and I was glad to have had the company of such magical songs.
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