Meet me there, huh?

Last night, with John Prine on low and the gentle screech of permanent markers to poster board, I made my sign for the Million Women March with my mom and her old friend—an auntie to me, who knitted my green baby blanket. We noticed some flashing lights down by the road, so Suave went to investigate: a man in a pickup truck had come flying around the corner and crashed into a tree. He had been taken to the hospital, and the paramedics said it looked pretty bad. We colored in the block letters on our signs, ate some chili, got in the hot tub, looking down often to see the lights still flashing, then dying out, and finally when just one flare was left, a neighbor called to report that the man in the pickup truck had died…right there in front of us, at the bottom of the driveway, as we colored in the block letters of our protest signs and drank wine and talked about wearing coats with lots of pockets and sighed about the repeal of the healthcare act. A man died. How fast, this life…How fragile. Was he drunk? In a rage? Did he just get some bad news? Was he listening to his favorite song? Who did he love? 

This afternoon, a friend with years of wisdom and good sense on me invited me into her home, cracked me a beer, and let me cry all over her kitchen counter for hours. Kind and sharp, she said things I’ve avoided and needed to hear. What a total miracle people like these are who randomly (or not so), answer the call and say quickly and unequivocally, “C’mon over.” We look into each other’s eyes, when we can.

Straight to rehearsal, loud and bodily and cathartic, where I closed my eyes and sang with my whoooooole being. That shit is freedom. Afterwards we stacked rows and rows of wood in the dark together—bandmates, who are family, who are ridiculous, and who are each other’s company on the weird, weird road. And just now I got off the phone with a friend living far away and fighting a very personal, ongoing, quiet battle. She reached out because I had opened up. What a gift. All this reciprocation. Identification. Acceptance. The guts. The web. 

My darling friends, we are here for each other. That’s the purpose of here, I gotta believe it. There is reason to be open, right now maybe more than ever, because connection between humans is what keeps us afloat in this sea of predators and divisions and hooks and anchors and toxins and fear. When we all show up, the job gets easier; we form a raft, and the seams get tight and true. 

She said it: “Take your broken heart ~ turn it into art.” Repeat. Repeat again. 
I’m showing up. Meet me there, huh?