I got the chance a few weekends ago to hear snippets of live music, which deeply satisfies my soul. Even when the genre isn't my fave and even when the musicians are less-than-profession (and sometimes especially then), it moves in me, affects me, whispers longings. I walk away with more questions than I sat down holding.
I've been doing a lot of driving. And when I get to driving, I get to thinking...and thinking...and praying...and thinking...and dreaming. I think of things I need to put on a "to do" list (some of them things I wish were on a "to don't" list). I think of things I need or want to tell people: "The sunshine on this drive is reminding me of you!" "Let's get coffee this week." Unfortunately texting and driving aside from killing people, really makes my parents agitated, so I try to refrain from this. Pulling out a notebook to keep track of thoughts is also tricky and treacherous. Hence why I need a voice recorder: to chronicle these flashes of brilliance (okay, I just mean the ideas).
Somewhere between Beaverhead Rock and Twin Bridges a few weeks ago, I was thinking about the creative process, writing, even performing, and how it always poses a risk. It always requires ripping open the shirt to expose bare breasts, so to speak: vulnerability. I've known this and ruminated on it many times before, but some sort of sunshine-drunk moment of joy made me willing to step into the risk in a new way; to really play, to be a fool, a child, to poke at my security and throw it off balance. I don't have much in my journal to show for it yet, but I've removed the mental barrier that had rusted the intimidating songwriting door shut. I'm willing for a while to sound cliche, to use a boring melody, to be okay with a few mediocre lines if it means doing it, getting it out, cutting out the rust, improving. I'll be singing closets full of silly songs before I uncover the gem I'm dreaming of, I'm sure, but I'm excited for the end result almost as much as I anticipate the beauty of the process.