We Can Work It Out

It's been a bit of a rough stretch for me during the last couple of weeks as a deadline I'd been working toward crept closer and closer. The closer it got, the less time, energy and ability I had to carry out the other tasks for which I am responsible, such as buying food for/feeding my kids. I thought I was doing well enough at faking it until my daughter rode to karate with the neighbors. When they got home, my neighbor walked over and told me that the kids were hoping we could all eat dinner together, and that my daughter had started to offer: "I know!My mom can make dinner for us --oh no, but she hasn't been to the grocery store in like two weeks." Busted!

So we eventually settled on ordering pizza, which seemed to please (almost) everybody. When I was growing up, my mom used to say "you can please some of the people some of the time." It drove me CRAZY, but now that I'm a mom, I know it's just the way it is.

Tonight, too, we had a hard time settling on a dining venue (the cupboard was still bare) -- and as we were haggling, this classic (and oh-so-wise) tune popped into my head. And we did work it out, in the end, with a little help from our friends:

Life is very short, and there's no time
For fussing and fighting my friend...

Take Me Home, Country Roads

Tonight while my daughter and I were brushing our teeth (yes, at the same time, I'm so tired I was hoping she'd tuck me in tonight) when she busted out with:

Mountain Mama!
Take me home, country roads.

What a revelation this was -- I had no idea she knew any John Denver songs -- and I knew her Dad hadn't introduced her to it. Turns out, she heard it from a friend at school. That just really warms my heart, that in the year 2010, kids are singing John Denver to each other on the playground.

She asked me if the lyric was really "Mountain mama," I told her it was. Then we looked it up on you tube and listened to this version of John singing his classic hit.

We also found this version of John with his pal Johnny Cash (with a partially obscured face), and this one of Olivia Newton-John, who apparently was the one to make his song popular down under. She sure is beautiful in this video, but what's up with its bizarre beginning? It reminded me a little of the Stephen King movie Carrie.

I loved John Denver when I was a kid, ALMOST as much as I loved Olivia Newton-John. But you'll discover more about that in future blog posts. For now:

Country roads, take me home
To the place, I belong
West Virginia, Mountain Mama
Take me home, country roads...

All That She Wants

There's just something about Leos -- so many important people in my life have the sign of the lion. Today is both my sister's birthday and one of my dearest faraway friends. It's been a crazy day, too -- I called my sister to wish her a happy birthday and she told me our mother had fallen off her bike and landed on her head and was in the hospital with a severe concussion. I talked to my mom this evening, and she's ok. She's even thinking of buying a helmet (she's never been big on safety). And then a bunch of minor things happened -- a glass got broken in the kitchen, not one but two glasses of milk were spilled at dinner -- it just seems like something is a bit off.

Since I didn't get to speak to her, I wanted to choose a song today in celebration of my friend. She was with me on many an all night revel, and we danced to a lot of songs together, but this is the one that came up for me. I have particularly fond memories of her moves during this part of the song:

So if you are in sight and the day is right
She's the hunter you're the fox
The gentle voice that talks to you won't talk forever
It is a night for passion
But the morning means goodbye
Beware of what is flashing in her eyes
She's going to get you

I hope it won't be too much longer before we're back on the dance floor together again.

I wonder, too, if this song is the one that came up because I started the morning at my OB/GYN office surrounded by pregnant women and wishing for that brand of big belly? It's not all that I want, I swear!

Get Here

I love this song. It's been on my internal playlist pretty much daily since I found out that one of my favorite people on this planet will get here -- reach(ing) me by airplane -- later this summer. He introduced this song to me years ago, and hearing it today, it brings back memories of how much I wanted him to get here so many years ago. And I'm so grateful he's gonna make it soon.

It's also an appropriate song for my friend in Seattle, who last year met and married her Albanian love and then had to wait a whole year before he could join her in this country. He was able to get here -- reach(ing) her by airplane -- yesterday. Yeah!

Airplane seems to be the standard mode of getting here -- although there were a couple of other ways she sings about that stood out for me. One was "you can reach me with your mind." Yes, you can, and you do, but it is infinitely less satisfying. The other is "you can windsurf into my life" -- which made me smile and think of the man who windsurfed into my life, and then back out again, on my latest trip to Maui. But that's neither here nor there. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)

Take it away, Oleta!

There are hills and mountains between us
Always something to get over
If I had my way, surely you would be closer
I need you closer...

Hallelujah

I really need to get a good night's sleep tonight, but I'm having trouble getting there. The anxiety in my stomach that used to be a constant companion now just comes back every once in a while to let me know when I'm ignoring a feeling that really needs to be felt, even at an inconvenient time like tonight, when I have a job interview in Chicago in the morning.

Lucky for me, riding the coattails of my anxiety this evening is this beautiful song sung by the equally beautiful Jeff Buckley. Listening to it, I'm struck most by the power of him singing the word Hallelujah, but I'm also struck by these lyrics:

Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

I think that's both really sad -- it's like Leonard Cohen's (the man who originally wrote and sang this song) version of Buddha's teaching that life is suffering -- and really beautiful at the same time. Love may not be a victory march, and it may be cold and broken (at times), but it's still an expression of joy and praise.

Hallelujah!

Now please let me get some sleep...

Born to Run

Once a month, I get to spend alone time with one of my kids, usually an overnight. This month it's my turn with my daughter, and we'd been talking for weeks about how we'd spend the time. We finally settled on a trip to Devil's Lake, a state park about an hour from our house. We put our bikes on the back of the car, grabbed our beach gear, and off we went.

Like all the best adventures, it didn't work out at all like we planned. We never actually went to Devil's Lake. Driving into Baraboo, the town you go through right before arriving at the entrance to the park, we saw that something was going on. Streets were blocked off, booths were set up... we'd skipped our local farmer's market this morning so we could hit the road, but when we spied what we thought might be another market, we felt compelled to park and check it out. That was at 11am -- we finally drove away from that parking space at 5pm. What we thought was a market turned out to be "Old Fashioned Days." One of the highlights of Old Fashioned Days was a huge water fight (pictured above) using actual fire hoses to shoot at a keg that is suspended in the air. It was awesome! The woman next to us said they'd been doing this every year since the 60s, when she'd come to watch it as a little girl. We've decided to make it an annual trip ourselves.

But the best moment, we decided over dinner this evening, wasn't something we were able to photograph. Later in the afternoon, we'd unloaded our bikes and rode them toward the riverwalk, which one of the locals recommended as a nice place to ride. It was magical -- especially the part where we rode down off the riverwalk on a trail, right to the edge of the river, and climbed out over the river on the trunk and branches of a Weeping Willow tree. We fancied it as our river home -- and the leaves that hung down all around us as the curtains. We wondered if maybe we could live there, at least in the summertime.

Heading back to Madison, I turned on the radio to see what was playing, and it was none other than this song by the Boss -- a man I grew up loving (and whose arms -- and voice -- I still have a definite affinity). Although the song is not about anything as innocent as pretending to live in a tree over a river, it is about how amazingly free you can feel when you leave it all behind, even for a few hours...

I Don't Want To Talk About It

Sometimes I feel like I get so much out of therapy; other times I feel like it's really just me saying the same shit over and over again. And while the insights are still coming, I am finding that the deeper they are, the harder they are to implement.

What's a girl to do? I'm trying to be gentle with myself. Sleeping a little more, and knowing that when I'm ready, I can and will continue to change the things about my life that aren't working.

This is the tune that my inner jukebox is spinning this morning. Check out this classic video of Rod singing it live in his pink suit with barely a hint of a shirt on underneath --who else could get away with that look? I also discovered this little treasure on youtube -- Rod accompanied by Amy Belle -- and when she sings:

I don't wanna
Talk about it
How you broke my heart...

It's almost more powerful than the original by the man in the pink suit. Almost.

I don't wanna talk about it anymore either...

A Tale of God's Will: Requiem for Katrina

Yesterday I spent a lot of time on airplanes -- it was supposed to be four in all to get to New Orleans and back -- but I didn't quite make it to the last leg and thus had to spend the night in a Best Western near the Detroit airport and catch the fourth flight this morning. (I'm still recovering.)

As I flew, a few different songs came to me that I considered blogging about, but they were all drowned out by the sheer force of the poverty and devastation that continues in New Orleans. This August will mark 5 years since Katrina -- but what struck me during my meetings was not really the result of the flood, but rather, the attention being paid to an area where poor black people had been getting a shitty education (if they got an education at all) for decades.

For someone like me, dedicated to finding a way to improve the lives of the urban poor, I see so much possibility in New Orleans. There's been a steady influx of federal funding (which is now starting to dry up), there are lots of foundations investing heavily in the recovery of the city's schools, and there's a general embracing of change and reform. Two of the people I was meeting with had grown up in NOLA and had returned, after the hurricane, out of a sense of civic duty, and no doubt there are many others who did the same. And yet, so much remains undone, and not just because of the storm, but because of the devastating poverty that has been there for generations.

Terence Blanchard grew up in New Orleans, and he wrote this song for Spike Lee's documentary When the Levees Broke, as a response to the aftermath of Katrina. As you may know from the songs I've posted to date, I'm a big fan of lyrics, but I can't imagine any words more powerful than this man and his trumpet. This live performance is really great -- you just have to wait a bit for Terence to pick up his horn.

Flying through Memphis, I saw the mug of my man MLK, Jr. on the wall. I share your dream, I assured him, and I'm going to keep working for it.

The Story

This past weekend, I read with a heavy heart the story of Chris Funk's death earlier this month, a man whom I didn't personally know well, but who lived in my neighborhood and was a huge part of the lives of some of my friends. Over the years since he'd been diagnosed with brain cancer, I'd attended one of his non-profit's annual events, said hello to him at our favorite neighborhood coffee shop, and eventually heard from a friend that the end was close. Though there is no doubt that his death marks a huge loss, he also lived a really full life in his 36 years, and had a wonderful relationship with his wife, Brandi, with whom he celebrated 10 years of marriage shortly before he died. Though I didn't know them well, they were the kind of couple who seemed, if there is such a thing, made for each other.

Here's one of my favorite songs by another amazing Brandi, whose screeching voice (I mean that in the best possible way) will let you know in no uncertain terms that she indeed believes in this sort of love. Hearing her sing about it -- I can't help but believe in it too...

AHHHHLLLL of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true -- I was made for you.

Killing Me Softly

When this song came up for me this morning, I thought how its lyrics epitomize what this blog is all about: so many of the songs I write about involve some strumming of my pain with his fingers (e.g. Eddie Vedder's) and singing my life with his words (e.g. Bob Dylan's). Doing a bit of research, I learned that this song was written in 1971 in response to seeing Don McLean live, but it was Roberta Flack who took it to number one and traveled the globe singing it -- I found versions of her singing the song with lyrics translated in Japanese and Polish, among others.

I can definitely understand Roberta Flack's international appeal. But it's the version by the Fugees, with that amazing Lauryn Hill, that moves me most. I remember when I bought that CD -- I didn't really care for the rest of it, so I'd just put this track on indefinite repeat:

I prayed that he would finish
But he just kept right on
Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly with his song...

Yep, that's just the way I want to go.
Over and over again.

Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover

Heard this one in the car on the way to the farmer's market this morning, and it seemed the perfect expression of what's cooking on a summer day: one part bared skin, two parts hottie and a splash of amped-up libido. As an Onion headline once said: Let the fucking begin!

Plus, it is pretty amusing seeing Sophie B. Hawkins rolling around onstage. Damn!

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Am I glad this one popped into my head today! It's a bit mysterious that it did, because there's no rainbow in the sky here in Madison, though you can be assured there's one in my beloved Maui, whether I'm there to see it or not.

I guess it isn't surprising that Judy Garland's plaintive version of this song in the Wizard of Oz has inspired a lot of others to do their own versions, but what I think is surprising is the variety. Jeff Beck's instrumental guitar version is really beautiful, and it has me motivated anew to start those guitar lessons. Rufus Wainwright, whom I read about in this fascinating article a few months ago, takes a stab at it to mixed reviews from youtube viewers. I quite like Rufus's version, now that I feel like I know him -- you may want to read the article before you listen so you know the whole story about his heartbreak over losing his mum to cancer. Eva Cassidy's stunning voice does it justice, in my opinion -- whereas Eric Clapton's doesn't do much for me. Maybe it's the sound of the ukulele, or the association with one of my favorite places on the planet, or the sight of this HUGE dude in a sarong, but I reckon I like Iz's version best.

Oh, and I know it's a bit out of character for me, but in this case it really isn't the lyrics that move me. Because I believe right here, right now, the dreams that I dare to dream really do come true.

One

This tune is one of my faves when I'm feeling angry at a love, past or present. The last few days, the object of my anger has been my past love, and the father of my children. I find it remarkably satisfying to scream (preferably in the confines of my station wagon):

You asked me to enter
And then you make me crawl
I can't be holding on
To what you've got
When all you've got is hurt...

I considered blogging a bunch of my feelings about what he didn't give then or won't give now and how my father didn't give either and how I keep picking these men who don't have the love to give that I'm seeking... But then I remembered a couple of important things. One, that we cannot give to someone else what we do not have ourselves, and two, if my ex were remotely a U2 fan, he would probably also find it satisfying to scream the words to this song, because I have no doubt that he feels that I asked him to enter and then made him crawl, too. It isn't easy, but I'm trying to stop the blame game. It doesn't get either of us anywhere now. It wasn't a match for the long term. Period. Don't really need to enumerate the reasons.

What is useful for me to remember now is that it is up to me to change frequencies so I don't wind up in the same boat again. But, if I do, Bono and the boys will be there for me with this amazing song to help me release and reset. Hurt may be familiar, but it isn't where I want to live anymore, baby.

Personally, I don't think it gets any better than pure, unadulterated, live U2, as seen in the video above. But if I were going to pick a female vocalist to rock this tune with Bono, I can't think of anyone better than Mary J. Blige...

Make You Feel My Love

Last night I came home to a small parcel in my mailbox from a man who knows the way to my heart: music. From the mixed tapes of the early 90s when we met to today's CDs burned off itunes, few things make me happier than receiving and listening to new music.

The song that moved me most on the first listen was this little gem from Adele. I love this woman's voice, I love her full cheeks, and I love her effortless manner -- it all adds up to the most quietly powerful song and video I've heard or seen in a long time. I also learned, looking it up on youtube, that this song, like so many others that I've chosen to blog about to date, was originally a gift from Bob Dylan. Damn that man has written a lot of beautiful songs! I wish I could provide a link to him singing it, but alas, I couldn't find one.

Lots of other people have covered this song, though I don't think any of them resonate with the same power as Adele's. The piano man gives a soulful rendition, and lots of country stars seem to have picked up this song too, including Garth Brooks. I'm not a big fan of country but I think Garth's version beats Billy's hands down, and in the accompanying video you can see Sandra Bullock's onscreen heartbreak, filmed before the crushing blows she's now experienced in real life.

As for me and the man across the pond who packaged and posted this song and all the others, he may not be able to hold me for a million years, but I can feel his love.

I am a Rock

This morning, when I was dealing with all the difficulties of returning from my fabulous vacation, this was one of the songs to which my ipod shuffled.

Listening to it, I recalled receiving a letter during college from the friend with whom I was just vacationing. In it, she had written the lyrics to this song along with the sad tale of her recent experience with unrequited love.

We've all been there, and it's songs like this that get us through. Looking it up on youtube just now, I found those two cuties in a live performance of this song, where Paul Simon introduces the song by saying: "This song, according to Artie, is my most neurotic song. I don't know whether that's true or not. It's a song about loneliness." It sure is, and the lyrics are instructive of the fact that to some degree at least, loneliness is a choice:

I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.

I also thought about the fact that it was probably within the next year that she met the man who is now her husband -- and has been for 17 years. They have a wonderful, loving relationship and four beautiful kids. That's part of what is so difficult about returning from this vacation -- I came home after enjoying 8 days with my kids and had to return them to their Dad, a man with whom I do not have a wonderful, loving relationship. Certainly, the temptation, in the wake of my divorce, has been there, from time to time, for me to withdraw "I am a Rock" style:

Hiding in my room
Safe within my womb (Is Paul's bed his womb just as my bed is mine?)
I touch no one and no one touches me.

But my friend didn't stay a rock after her loss of love, and look what blossomed. So I'm not going to either. I may be 20 years older now than she was then, but I'm also better equipped than ever (thanks to wonderful friends, lots of therapy, frequent acupuncture and an almost daily dose of heart openers in my yoga practice) to take down the walls, forget about the fortress, and emerge from the womb again.

Listening to the refrain now, I am determined not to be a rock. I reckon there are still some rocky fragments in this soil I'm cultivating -- but it's fertile, it's gets plenty of sunlight and water, and when the time is right, I just know something beautiful will take root.

Vacation

This week I have the pleasure of being on vacation with my oldest friend and her family on Crystal Lake in Michigan. The setting is beautiful, and as my infrequent blogging would suggest, I've spent precious little time on a computer. Instead, I've been swimming, boating, jetskiing, playing tennis, playing basketball, running, hanging out with all of the kids and catching up on back issues of the New Yorker.

Having grown up together, it is a treat now to be here together with our kids -- and to see the parallels between us as children and our own children. When I saw my daughter walking haughtily toward me with my friend's niece, I knew instinctively that my friend's daughter had been left out - and when I went back to investigate, I found her drying her tears in her mom's lap. I explained to her that the same scenario had played out when we were kids, and it was most often her mom that was left behind with her feelings hurt. What followed was a good discussion of the troubles that three presents, and how we can all learn to either dial it up or dial it back so that we can continue to engage in play. I think I'm still learning how to do that in different situations as an adult.

Leisure time really is a treasure, especially when shared with old friends and our children. If you aren't currently in vacation mode, you can at least listen to the Go-Go's tribute to the getaway:

Vacation
All I ever wanted
Vacation
Had to get away...

Rasberry Beret

There are so many things I love about this song.

I love the memories it conjures up of those wild nights in Sydney in the early 90's when my friends and I would start our evening with shots of vodka, go see our favorite cover band at an Irish bar, and then, round about the time that bars close here in the US, we'd wander into the seediest section of the city, King's Cross, to dance until dawn.

I love the lyric and the concept: "(She wore a rasberry beret) and if it was warm she wouldn't wear much more." The other day I was on my morning bike commute to work, and I was passing by this house that I just seem to be drawn to -- I haven't really figured out why -- but the energy is just really awesome and alive. Ok, and the guy who lives there is this 50 year old hottie with lots of cool bikes from cruisers to featherweight road bikes and a really sweet Audi station wagon. Whenever I pass, I always look around to see if he's outside and when he is, we say hello. Well, the other day when I glanced over, he wore some grey briefs, and, just like the hottie that Prince is singing about here, it was warm and he wasn't wearing much (anything) more. In my opinion, briefs aren't the hottest undies on dudes in general, but my guess is Prince didn't have a thing for berets before he spotted this chick -- and then it was the way she wore it that really did it for him.

This song is full of awesome lyrics which you can watch while you listen. Some of my faves are:

Now overcast days never turned me on
But something about her and clouds mixed
She wasn't too bright
But I could tell when she kissed me
She knew how to get her kicks

And this song just exemplifies all that I love about Prince: his happy, danceable beats, his sensual way of experiencing the world and how he shares that with us in his music, and the fabulously tuned instrument that is his voice...

Troy

This year the start to the summer didn't feel the same to me as previous summers have, and I wasn't sure why until late this past week. Normally I'm so excited when the weather gets warm, so excited to sit in the sun and to swim in pools and lakes. And it isn't that I haven't been enjoying these things this year, it's that I've sort of been in a state of denial the whole time that it really is summer -- like it is happening and not happening at the same time. And that's because it is -- it is happening for me, but it isn't happening for my friend Mary.

Last August Mary, my cousin's wife and the mother of two of my Aunt's grandchildren, was training for the Ironman -- on a long swim in a local lake -- when she started swimming erratically and then stopped swimming altogether. She was rushed to shore by fishermen, met by paramedics who revived her and raced her to the hospital, but her brain had been without oxygen for a few minutes. We all kept vigil at the hospital for what we were stunned to learn were the last three days of her life. She was 38, and, in many respects, in peak physical fitness. We later learned that she had myocarditis, an infection in her heart.

We were friends for 20 years, and we shared a lot of songs, but the one that is coming up for me now is one that is as raw and angry and hauntingly sad as we all felt (and still feel at times) in the wake of Mary's death. When we were in college, we all loved Sinead O'Connor, but Mary REALLY loved her -- and she would often blast this song in the house that we shared at that time. Sometimes we could hear her scream along with Sinead:

You should have left the light on!

Losing Mary leaves a big hole -- and this summer, at least, the hole feels especially large because the other two friends of mine from college with whom Mary and I used to have an annual reunion don't seem to be interested in doing it without her. I understand, in a way. It's hard to do things where you feel really confronted with the loss -- that's one of the reasons (there are others) why I'm not going to the 4th of July celebration at the family farm where Mary is buried. I just wish my friends and I could come together as we did when she died -- it made it easier to bear. My acupuncturist says that grief is an inherently lonely process. That there is just a lot of it that has to be done internally. As my friend Sarah would say: Sigh.

I'm glad to have Sinead's company -- listening to her makes me feel close to Mary. You too can hear the bravest, most beautiful bald woman I know rocking her kick-ass song at a festival; you can also check out the video. And you can be sure that I'm leaving the light that Mary left behind on...