...As I wandered downstairs, drawn by the sound of her rich, contralto voice, I became flooded with memories...first hearing Joni Mitchell, introduced to her in high school, at exactly the time of this BBC performance, by another extremely talented musician, my friend Ray. He knew everything about jazz, and about great music in general, and we would spend hours listening to new albums, poring over the liner notes, lost in the sounds, captivated, enchanted, as children can be, because they are open to entering into music and becoming one with it.
Becoming one with the music as only a child can was something I desperately needed to do because I had spent my day being far too much of a grown up.
I found this:
I sat watching, listening, and singing, with my head tilted to the left, my cheek cupped into the palm of my hand, lost in the sounds and the idea that I don't know much.
I glanced to the right as Woody, our oldest cat, came walking slowly into my room. He's twenty. He's been with us from the beginning. He's been through, and tolerated it all. All the comings. All the goings. He doesn't feel good now. He hasn't for awhile. He got off his spot on the couch downstairs, that he doesn't move from very often, to find me, to yell at me.
He walked into my room very slowly and meowed very loudly.
"What's wrong? You lonely?"
I got off my chair, the spot I don't seem to move from very often, and lay down in the floor next to him. He inched closer as I stroked the top of his head and that soft spot in the nook beneath his ear. His meowing and the sound of saying I love you right out loud echoed through the room. And I thought about where we are, where I am right now.
Everything she sang about, I knew I would get to eventually. Love, loss, despair, pleasure, joy, confusion, amazement, loneliness, independence, anger, and yearning, yearning, yearning--for more, for better.
I leaned in to Woody. He curled up closer, purring, nudging his nose into my neck.