Dreams really do come true...

I'm digging in my closets and sifting through old boxes as I get ready to move (read: "throwing lots of things away" and "finding interesting ancient artifacts") and I actually found a tape voice recorder that I used a couple times in college. I will definitely be tucking it into my purse and taking it along on my drive tomorrow...er, this morning. I'll let all you readers know what strokes of genius spring forth.

The bug and why I need a voice recorder

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.