My epic weekend of fun things began last night at the KW Boathouse with a show. I’ve seen Jackets a few times in the last couple of years and I always try to go out when they come to town. There’s something about their music that’s strangely nostalgic for me, despite the fact that these guys could be my kids. They sound like something I might have heard at a house party my parents might have thrown. Their music is laced through with something bluesy, folksy, something slightly psychedelic.
They rocked my night, and if I hadn’t been up at seven yesterday morning, I would have stayed for the whole show, because I was snuggling with a guy who uses words like Effyness and Museability. My whole heart wanted to stay, basking in the warmth of the kind of touch & attention I am not accustomed to receiving, but my body demanded sleep, so I obeyed. I trust that there will be more snuggling, more banter, more of the same, so I can let it go in favour of the things my body insists I need. Rest. Arms and legs akimbo, laying diagonally in my queen sized bed, taking up every inch of space. Deep sleep. When you know there’s more, you don’t have to cling.
Anyway. Jackets. Here they are, though, for your listening pleasure. :)
In Other News
I’m making a beef stew today and having a friend over for The Tragically Hip concert. We were going to head out and enjoy the live stream at a public event, but the forecast is calling for more thunder and lightening, and having been caught in the deluge last night on my way home, I’d rather avoid any more dousing. Home, with candles lit and nag champa burning. Home, with someone who never needs an explanation, never needs the backstory, never needs context to understand exactly what I’m thinking or feeling. We’re not supposed to be hanging out like this, really, because its complicated, but fuck it. Life is short. I’m looking forward to it.
I hope you have a blessed weekend, and I don’t mean that easy, hand waving kind of ‘blessed’ that people tend to throw around these days. I mean that I hope you find beauty & meaning in the hidden pockets of your hours. I hope you find something worth remembering in among the ordinary, unremarkable moments. I hope you love someone fiercely, and that they love you back. I hope the divine touches you on the back of the neck and makes your hair rise *at least once*. I hope there’s poetry in it. Or maybe, song. I hope there’s pleasure in it. I hope there is pride in the work of your hands, be they engaged in art making or bread making. I hope you know your own worth, and that when you catch sight of your reflection, you smile with your whole heart beaming out of your eyes at that extraordinarily beautiful person looking back at you.
It’s one of my core beliefs that we’re all in this together. I may not understand your particular way of being in the world, but I know I don’t have to understand to love you. I may even feel occasionally affronted by some of the things you do or say, but I after that feeling passes, I want you to know that what remains is deep affection & devotion for OUR humanity.
We are all just walking each other home. Ram Dass said that, and when I found myself reading it, I nodded my head so vigorously in agreement that I cracked my neck. It was one of those TRUE THINGS, the Internet as oracle, that comes across my feed now and then, that makes me exhale in a soundless, goose-bump raising OHHHHHHHyessssss. and I took it, claimed it, tucked away in my collection of things I know to be true.
I love thinking this way (after I’ve finished doing the work of feeling those first feelings we feel when someone pisses us off or behaves in ways that we find difficult to deal with). I love knowing that we all get caught in the same storms. We are all breathing the same air. We all look up at the same moon, and our lives are sustained by the same life giving sun.
The divine is present, all around us, within us, always, known by ten thousand names, dancing to whatever tunes we play for Her, wearing whatever costume might be appropriate given the occasion. (I’m paraphrasing Victor Anderson here.)
I may not necessarily recognize your version of divine, and you will probably not recognize mine. Mine exists in the way my body moves when the Jackets play. It exists in the beef stew I’m preparing, and in the hands that are preparing it, and in the body that it nourishes and sustains. It exists in orgasm. It exists in failure. It exists in misunderstanding, in insurmountable obstacle, in hummingbirds coming to the feeder, in the feeder. It exists in the newborn’s cry, in lost love, in devastation, in quake, thunder, flood. In death.
I know it exists, and despite there being so many masks for it to wear, and though I know that I may not recognize some of those masks, I know another thing as well as I know the back of my own hand. I know it recognizes *me*, no matter what mask it wears. I know it recognizes *you*.
We are the beloved, and because we are, you, personally, you, reading this, you agreeing or disagreeing, you, nodding or shaking your head in rejection of my way of thinking, you are the beloved.
The beloved is for loving, so, I love you.
I may not always like you, and I may not always enjoy the dance you’re dancing as you dance your way home. I may not always respond from a place of highest goodness to the way you choose to be with me, the things you choose to say to me, but in the still, quiet, reflective pool I carry in the center of my being, I see you. I see myself in you. I see us, together, walking one another home, and I love you.
Blessed like that.