I had found it in the deep dark depths of my closet. Hidden away in the bottom of a cardboard box, where the rest of my life was being kept. I pulled it out upon recognition and decided to throw it in my car. Maybe one day I would go through it and pick out one of those discs and try to remember who gave it to me and why as I listened.
Just yesterday I pulled out my first CD. I hadn’t recalled who gave it to me. I still can’t. A combination of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Blue October, some songs from the August Rush Sound Track, and a little Chris Rice. I recalled the summer, in Chicago working for my aunts wife at her “boutique” store…which consisted of several multi-purpose rooms for rent, a nursery for child care, a large art gallery, and an even larger retail space. I had worked that summer to my utmost loneliness. Both my aunt and her wife work…a lot. So I spent a great deal of time alone. I quit working a week early. My boss didn’t like it. The I had to go back to their house, and still deal with the drama that should have been left at work. It was infuriating.
Music got me through that summer. It was all that kept me going. Perhaps that is where the CD came from? Perhaps it was a gift to myself? I still didn’t recall. All I knew was it helped me survive…and that was enough to evoke a fond sadness.
I know I talk about sadness a great deal, and I’m sure you’re all sick of it by now, but I do have a deep fondness to sadness. You can become addicted to it, but only the ones that were a combination of nostalgic sorrow. The sadness of missing someone long lost to you. The sadness of remembering a bitter sweet memory. The kind of sadness that has beauty to it. It’s not traumatic, just poetic and lovely. A warm kind of sorrow that fills your soul with the kind of emotional release humans often need and deprive themselves. Not the kind that drives people to drink, but the kind that makes them take long walks after a glass of wine. We focus so much on happiness, we often forget to allow ourselves to mourn things. To miss things. We tell ourselves good riddance, but the riddance isn’t without it’s own pain.
Music often brings me back to those moments.