Bob keeps me young-hearted and hopeful.

 

He is a leader of troops, a champion of babies, and a supporter of the arts.  He is the one-man-cheering section for his musical sons, his wife, and all the creative craziness we've attempted throughout the years.  Right from the beginning of our marriage, we both knew we wanted to invest in recording equipment before we bought good furniture.  Nothing much has changed. We still have more keyboards than fancy seating.  I'm fine with that.

 

Because you can't play a sofa.

 

When I was first figuring out how to be a writer/musician/performer, I thought it would be like getting in a bright yellow roadster and cruising at top speed. Nobody prepared me for the complexities of driving with little children buckled in the back seat. For one thing, as a young mother, I could never get songwriting out of my head.  The baby took a nap. I wrote songs. I scrubbed pots, composed melodies, and retrieved the hairbrush our toddler was using to clean the toilet bowl. While I held my kids in the rocking chair, lyrics were turning over in my brain, like polished stones. Then, I'd gather up my collection of pebbles, head out, and sing those songs for audiences.  Exhausted, but determined not to quit.

 

People encouraged me. Believed in me. Gave me opportunities to do more. So I did more. Once in a while, I'd get comments from other mothers who would backhandedly remark that it was nice I had a creative outlet, but maybe I ought to concentrate on my real job as a housewife.  My husband told me not to worry about other people's judgements; I should just keep my eyes on the road ahead, and aim for my dreams.

 

Then, he went out and bought me a better microphone. But, not before he picked up the kids and changed another loaded diaper.  

 

Sometimes I wondered why I kept going when I had little commercial success - I barely made enough money to call myself a professional songwriter. But I've thought about it and here is the reason I stayed on track: I sang because I believed the saddest thing in the world was not to have a voice. Not to speak truth.  And the happiest thing was to open my mouth and sing whatever was pressing on my heart, whatever I imagined God to be. I couldn't put that on a resume, and for the longest time I tried to come up with a job description. Writer. Singer. Juggler.

 

In my early fifties, I started to think seriously about napping for ten years. Maybe I could snooze until I received a kiss and woke up like Sleeping Beauty, only with more wrinkles. Maybe I should quit my artsy endeavours altogether, throw away my Minnie Mouse dreams and stop trying to live a fantasy. Maybe I should get a reverse makeover and look for a regular career;  become a normal, older, lady in sensible shoes. But then, I thought...nah.  It was just the Middle Ages talking. Everything was changing. And maybe some of my dreams were, too.  Being in mid life felt sort of like moulting. The nest I had built was empty.  And the old wings I flew with yesterday no longer worked. Moulting season is a time to let the old things drift and embrace new feathers. 

 

It took awhile, but once I began recording music again, re-energized and wide awake, my husband could be heard cheering: "Yeeeaaaaahhh!!"

 

Good people pulled me through the Middle Ages. Reached out to me. Prayed. Laughed. Called up with invitations to put on silly costumes and prance around on summer campgrounds with the ocean as our backdrop; joined voices with me on theatre stages, waited patiently while I learned dance routines, and gave me juicy roles to sink my teeth into. A lifeline of community. I discovered a new love of writing, not just music, but plays and stories.  I held on. In between naps.  

 

Getting closer to sixty, now, I realize there is only so much time left.  This is not the time to throw away vision.

 

Wow.  That got serious pretty fast.  But life is.  It's tragic and comical, too.  It's the only one you get.

 

So I say this with all my heart, to myself and to everyone who will listen:

 

"You were running a good race. Who cut in on you to keep you from obeying the truth?"

 

Hey there, Cinderella. Let me say it again, if you didn't hear it already in the song. It's still okay to dream. 

 

In fact, it's imperative.