Some would argue that in the song “Feeling Good,” the singer has already found their desired freedom. Others say that they are singing to convince themselves of the possibility. I seem to be, not unlike the dragonfly, somewhere hovering in between.
The birds have their songs. The bees, their honey. So what about that dragonfly? Are we not in the same sky? Under the same sun? Sure we’re not all given the same gifts, the same advantages, but we are given the same day. The same 24 hours to make the most of it. I don’t want to waste my time envying the bird, but celebrating my own flight.
And I don’t always get it right. But on those days, I try to sing even louder —
“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day It’s a new life for me, yeah It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day It’s a new life for me, ooh And I’m feeling good!”
There’s a reason for the chorus. The importance of it. That’s why it’s repeated again and again. So on the days when I make the same mistakes, I sing myself out. Not with shame or worry, but simply a welcoming of the chorus.
Those that play know it’s there, the piano in our library. It’s one of my favorites spots in the house. A collection of art, music, books and photos. And it will call to you, in the voice that you need to hear.
I suppose we’re all drawn to it, what we love, if we dare to follow the radar that pulses from each heart beat. I’m always surprised when people say they don’t know. It’s literally pounding inside of you. I guess they are afraid.
It has been said that we’re driven by one of two things, love or fear. Love will lead you to the piano. Will never allow it to go unplayed. Love will encourage the stumble through each note. The beginning again and again. Love will music your family in, and soon you will all be part of the song.
Fear is quiet. Lonely. Cold. (It’s not lost on me that my painting above the piano reads, “all my heart ever wanted, was just to come in from the cold.”) And it has. This is my hope for all. My welcoming.
In recent days, within minutes of entering our house, our nephew, who was vacationing from the US, was at the piano. I suppose one never takes a vacation from the self. So many miles away, almost instantly, he found his way home.
The best we can do is keep them in sight – the pianos and books, the kitchen tables, the art supplies and open corners on beds, the hearts between outstretched arms. But we all have to listen, to follow, to become. It’s up to each and every one of us to be brave enough to try. To come in. To dare the unplayed piano.
When he saw the painting of my grandfather he asked if we still had the farm. I paused, stuck in who the “we” would even be. I started passing it down in my head, from uncle to cousin, to second cousin, (none to whom I felt a collective we). It passed again in my head to I’m not sure, to finally, it didn’t really even matter, because, I told him, “I still have everything.” And I do.
Even a lifetime and country away, I can feel the warmth of the rock at the base of the driveway. The same steady of my grandfather. The gravel beneath my feet. The jolt of an electric fence. The smell of apples, on and off the trees. The sandy feel of a cow’s tongue. The bounce of a screen door. The scent of my grandma’s kitchen. My face against her sticky apron. The ever damp basement. Jesus on the cross upstairs. Prayed to from the kitchen table. The sewing room that stitched all nine children’s lives together. The front stoop that promised the scent of tobacco and hope. My mother laughing in that kitchen. Crying in that kitchen. Hands folded at that table. Driving away from the rock one last time, never really leaving.
So, yes, I still have the farm. And the we is all who listen to the stories. The we is you who remember your own grandmother’s apron. Who read the words and climb upon your grandfather’s lap. We still have it all. We have everthing.
Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.
I loved Mrs. Erickson, my third grade teacher at Washington Elementary, but it was clear she didn’t have all the answers. I can see, looking back, what she was probably trying to do, but still… She wanted us, as young girls, to get interested in the sciences, so she grouped us together and told us about exciting careers in medicine, geology, chemistry, why “we could even be astronauts”, she cheered. My hand shot up in the air — so eager to speak, I crossed my left arm over my chest, trying to keep my right arm from, well, shooting into space. She pointed her stick at me, letting all the words out of my mouth. “We’ve been playing it for years!” I said. “What’s that?” She asked. “Fashion astronaut. My mom and I play fashion astronaut almost every day!” She tightened her lips and closed her eyes, shaking her head in dismissal. “That’s not a thing,” she said, staring back at the blackboard.
“Well of course it’s a thing! I know what I’ve done and hadn’t done,” I thought to myself, head hrrrumphing in my hands. My mother had never lied to me. We WERE fashion astronauts. I got ready with her each morning. As she accessorized she explained how this scarf or this necklace would put this certain outfit right over the top! Launching it above all others. We were indeed astronauts! No one could tell me otherwise.
I took the bus home, rolling the assurance of my scarf between my fingers. I stomped down the gravel driveway and waited for my mom to come home from work. I told her everything — it all came out faster and higher than I hoped, but she had become very efficient at deciphering my “we’ve been wronged” vernacular. She smiled. “That’s the thing about being an astronaut,” she said, “we don’t really need anyone’s approval.” I smiled too. And knowing this, didn’t we just go a little bit higher!
