One of the things left with my Mother’s body was a little book based on LeAnn Rhymes I Hope You Dance.
Do you know how much I fucking hate that song?
I can’t even describe it, but I have what must be a close-to-PTSD trigger to it, because except once or twice, I’ve literally run out of every public venue as soon as I hear the first chords, hyperventilating, in full panic.
She didn’t even like LeAnn Rhymes that much!
My Mom loved Joni Mitchell, and Carol King, Streisand, Nanci Griffith, and Lucinda Williams. She loved all of the great female folk singers (and then had an embarrassing thing for Kenny Rogers and George Strait).
She liked country and loved folk, and Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides Now would have been a song I could have lived with. It would have helped.
But this LeAnn Rhymes semi-christian Country?
I can’t type the lyrics, because even seeing the song will have me on the bathroom floor keening. But what I can say is this.
I like country and love folk too.
Most of all, I love the Indigo Girls, as I’ve written more than once. Popular music is the only art where I can say – emphatically – that I have a favorite band. I don’t have a favorite author, I have a favorite list of authors. I don’t have a favorite painter, I have a list. Movies, list. Actors, list. Classical, list. But for non-classical music, it’s Amy and Emily and has been since 1990. (Although Joni Mitchell and Simon & Garfunkle are very close seconds).
The universe works in strange ways, and my boss (a straight up music junkie himself) posted the pre-order for an Indigo Girls concert on my facebook page months ago. Naturally I ordered 2 tickets, told the brunette, and then discovered that they were playing the friday of Mother’s Day weekend.
The worst weekend of the year.
Very few people see me when I am truly and completely happy in my skin. But my wife has. Sometimes I let my friends glimpse it, particularly if they are near me and my horse.
But on Friday night, I danced. To the music that has made getting through the worst parts of this life possible. I sang until I was hoarse.
Because I know the words to every song and singing along is absolutely required by Amy and Emily. They wrap you up in their music until you feel ALL the feelings — from political outrage to love to heartbreak to existential questions to
hope. Most of all, hope.
I drank blueberry red bull (they didn’t have sugar free, and I danced in my little black dress. I danced my blonde ass off.
Like no one and everyone was watching. Like the complete weirdo that I am. So completely filled with joy by the music and the people who love the same music I love.
So yeah, Mom. I miss the fuck out of you. But I am dancing.