I sit in a laundromat of a new locale. This large space shared only by three other people. The natural soundtrack is the vibration of washers and dryers, the droning of ABC news, and the cascading of raindrops against the window.
Like always I opt for my own soundtrack instead of settling for what is given to me. When it rains, I love to listen to Blossom Dearie. It’s not that her music is depressing, or sad, but between her words and just above the music, it’s almost as if you can hear the gentle tapping of rain.
It’s not a rain of sadness, but it’s not a rain of new beginnings. It’s the rain that creates puddles children splash in. The rain that rinses a few days of dirt off of your car. It’s the rain that we need for growth. It’s safe, but enough of a bother that it’s not comfortable.
When I listen to Blossom Dearie I can hear her baby doll voice juggle these feelings, these emotions, in ways that a more powerful voice might not manage. There is a deftness, a gentleness that holds onto you and walks you to the other side of the road letting you know that it’s okay.
You aren’t alone and the marathon you’ve run in your head your entire life can end. It’s not an assurance that tomorrow will be better, but that it can’t be if you continue down the same path.
When she sings she plays the strings to my insides. One word could tip off a smile, a longing, a love, or a sadness but it always comes back to balance. Never going too far but never denying it all.
So I watch the rain and smile. I still live and still have time to be who I have always wanted to be.