|Typical get-up-- long skirt, birkenstocks, and braids|
Yesterday morning, a silly man on the classical music station compared Dylan’s Times They Are A-Changing to Haydn’s 60-something Symphony. Turns out that they both wrote music emphasizing the changing of time. But who, after being reminded of Bob Dylan’s jewel of a song, has the patience for Papa Haydn? Possibly plenty of people, especially those stuck in a car, but not me! I put on some Dylan and spent the rest of the morning listening to his hoarse voice tell tale after delightfully befuddling tale.
As I sat on our futon trying to make sense out of anything Bob Dylan was singing about, my thoughts went back several years—back to the days of living in San Francisco where I wore long skirts and sat around Golden Gate park listening to hippies play drums. During that time, Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands was my song of choice… because I was sad and missed my mom. But time went on, and eventually, with a flower in my hair, the rest of my Dylan albums got equal play. It was also in San Francisco that the universe smiled upon me and brought everything perfectly together so that when my “blood sister” (a story for another post), Kelly, came to visit, she did it at the same time Bob Dylan was giving a concert. Oh and it was a perfect concert—out doors, surrounded by a bunch of old, bearded men who sang along with every word. Later, me, Kelly, and my guitar went to a defunct bus stop and spent the rest of the night singing every Bob Dylan song we knew.
|The wondrous streets of San Francisco|
My moment of reflection didn’t end there. With the arduous task of moving upon us, I’ve begun packing up the stuff we don’t currently use, mostly books and the like. Today I found my massive collection of journals, starting from Christmas 1991. Precious moments followed as I read through the pontifications of a 7 year old. My nearly indecipherable handwriting told of Kevin crawling, my mom getting up at 5am to give birth to Grant, my great-grandma Nana’s death and how I was always afraid to hug her. My first piano recital was in there, and, surprisingly, I note my progress as a pianist over the years. In my memory piano was always something I did just to get a harp but my journal would indicate that I was quite serious about mastering that instrument. There was a letter that I wrote to myself when I was 14 (what a delight I was!); there were several loose-leaf papers that I had dutifully typed on my typewriter, mostly struggling with the decision of which college to go to. Those days are over, and for that I am truly grateful, but it was fun to read about my life as it was happening.
|Kyle, G-Grandparents, Me in Mississippi|
Journaling has taken a back seat as of late. When Joe and I were in Alaska my only entry was a recipe for Italian Sodas followed by the phrase I nearly passed out with pleasure after the first sip. Evidently I felt like that summed it all up. But then there's this blog... I wonder if it will be something that I look back on years from now, or if it will eventually get deleted. Incidentally, are there any secret tips for diligent journal writing? If so, pass them my way!
|In a hand-made dress during |
my 'Colonial Era' phase