This Accordian Life

 I used to have a thing with accordions.  And not a good thing.  Our relationship soured in elementary school, when I was taking catechism classes at St. Teresa's.  One day, for some reason, one of my catechism classmates--an odd, leggy, pale boy--brought his accordion and played it for us.  His gangly arms worked feverishly while the instrument wheezed and belched through some unrecognizable tune.  The incident (and, honestly, I really did view it as an incident) kind of scarred me.

I wouldn't look favorably upon accordions until college, when bands like Brave Combo and They Might Be Giants made them suddenly cool to me.  And now?  Now, both Mark and I are suckers for the way the instrument can capture a feeling and break our hearts so well.

I'd be hard pressed to find a musical instrument that does a better job of summing up this squeezebox life of mine.  As a 54-year-old accordion, I regularly vacillate between compressed focus and expansive views, sometimes more than once in a single day.  Facing breast cancer, there were times this fall when I felt like I had no more air left in my lungs.  But always--always--something or someone came along and nudged my shoulders back and filled me up again.  This magical in-and-out quality of my accordion life is why--despite my health, despite the loss of my mother, despite the divisiveness of the election--I still hear music every day.  It is why I have such confidence in the future, even if today feels a bit heavy or scary.

So, I suppose I still have a thing with accordions.  A very good thing.  And I should probably admit that my catechism classmate was way ahead of his time.  Goofy looking as he was, he knew then what it took me another 40 years to finally understand--that there is beauty and awe and music in a thing that is capable of both hugging me and letting me go.