If there is one thing I can say about my personality it is
that I despise being late. My father always told me, “if you’re going to be
late, be early.” I never understood that. I still don’t. No matter, he planted
the seed of all things that are unholy and unclean. The top of the list:
tardiness. It is no wonder that when I see a traffic jam I feel the blood in my
body build up conscious pressure.
But today was different. Something odd happened. Something
alien. Something refreshing. Something most welcome. As I merged onto the
interstate, calm seemed to whitewash my entire body. I was transfixed by peace.
In the background I could hear the faint sound of Van Morrison calling me into
the mystic.
In that moment I did what any music loving being would do. I
cranked it up and remembered the feeling of once having a gypsy soul. I let the
horn break consume me, draining every ounce of stress and negativity from my
spirit. Freedom enveloped my subconscious, while I happily joined the cadence
of the stop and go traffic surrounding me.
The minutes lapsed as brass gave way to the sultry voice of
Janis reveling in love and loss. Like seasons of my own life, Bobby McGee
weaved throughout her past and present with resounding illumination of all
things beautiful, yet passed by. Love is like that. It envelopes you and
releases you in its own sweet time. It is a lost song, a distant memory, a
fading joy. Fading like Janis’ voice in the shadows of St. Elmo’s Fire.
“Growing up, you don’t see the writing on the wall…” An
anthem to my youth. “Soldier on, only you can do what must be done...” Suddenly
I am filled with empowerment, hearing the lyrics to a song I have heard many times
over yet never really felt until this very moment. “I can climb the highest
mountain, cross the wildest sea.” Damn right I can! “I can feel St. Elmo’s Fire
burning in me...” Inside my car, a concert hall. Just two feet to my left,
another car bearing the burdens of an agitated passenger looking at me as if I
were the sole cause of the traffic folly.
Suddenly, I am brought to level of awareness that begs for
my reserve. And yet, as this awareness engulfs me, for the first time in
forever I do not care. “Just once in his life a man has his time,
and my time is now. I'm coming alive…” He’s still staring at me, this man…this
angry man. I see a familiar face in him. I see myself, a person of lost
joy, focusing only on life’s duties.
When did music leave my soul? When did I lose my spirit? When
did I surrender control of my joy to happenstance? Since when did I allow the
irritation of traffic to hijack the rest of my day?
And just like a perfectly written script, “a long, long time
ago I can still remember how that music used to make me smile.” At that exact
moment when the realization hit me that I have allowed life’s burdens to
suffocate the music from my life, confirmation of the loss is delivered by none
other than Don McLean. I glance once again at the agitated man to my left and I
smile, I roll down my window in the 40 degree chill to share the gift that I
have been given on this random Thursday.
As the day fades, I sit in reflection of my gratitude for a simple
traffic jam and a mirror image of who I choose not to be. Ah, the joy of life.
It can be found in the most unpredictable of places.
