Jazzsplanations

I have spent an inordinate amount of time and money at SF Jazz! If I ever come up missing and there isn’t a race scheduled that weekend, check the SF Jazz event calendar. I’m probably there, en route there, or rushing to BART to get to the last Caltrain to take that trek home. I hate driving in San Francisco.

I digress.

Earlier this month I spent time with three lovely people at SF Jazz. If you are looking back at the calendar to see who was performing, you won’t find it. It was a Member’s Only event. Yeah, remember my Jazz Mama? She was playing there and I had to get a membership so I could buy a ticket. You know that happened.

So now, I am benefiting from all the privileges of membership. Like this event, The Artistry of Ensemble: Wine & Jazz. See this winery wanted to give away introduce a new red blend they’ve been working on and well, us. Free wine? Yea, okay. Sit with that for a minute while we get another round.

My lovely friends and I got gussied up after work and made our way to the SF Jazz Center. Ah, that place. Every time I’m in there I feel like I’m in another world. Like I’m a little girl playing dress up, who snuck out to hang with the grownups. I’m always worried that I won’t be dressed appropriately. Then I remember not to apologize for who I am, and enjoy the show.

It was awesome seeing the looks on their faces. Like kids in a candy store, they were awe’d by everything I have come to love about SF Jazz. The ambiance, the setting, the fancy people, the staff interactions, everything! And I knew it. I was so happy. It’s so awesome when you can show and share with your friends nice things.

…until you actually show and share nice things with them. Enter Jazzsplanations.

In order for Jazzsplanations to happen, you need the following:

1.    A ratchet friend that isn’t loyal. This person will say extremely ratchet things, but when the ish hits the ratchet, they will act like they have never seen you; and

2.    A colorful lip’d friend who puts vampires on her lips because apparently red toned things are in; and

3.    A friend that…that’s…that’s…thank God he’s cute; and

4.    …and me. And my kryptonite? My smarter-than-me phone.

Now that you’ve got the friends, you have to give them access to unlimited amounts of wine. That costs them nothing. Like entrance to the venue. It must all be free. #membershiphasitsprivileges

Cute friend will wink at the bartender to ensure that your red wine pours look like your koolaid cups at dinner time. Cute friend will also avoid all forms of order, like lines, and help himself to the refreshments at his leisure. *take a selfie* Vampires for lips friend will twerk-not-twerk on elderly Caucasian men that get too close to her. She also has fabulous hair, so there’s that #heffa #sowhatyoucute. Then there’s ratchet. But before we get to ratchet, we have to talk about what’s going on.

We had a fantastic time. We learned how Luminary created their Red Wine Blend, and the singer jazzsplained music to us. With each development of the wine, she jazzsplained the instrument, the music, the development of sound I never take for granted. It was truly the artistry of ensemble. While we could have done without her singing along with the music, it was an amazing event.

So, in this beautiful room we have a group of musicians playing the soundtrack to our shenanigans. We have the director of the SF Jazz Center, the Winemaker, and a Jazz Singer, entertaining us while we swirl and chug sip our wine. The director tells us, that this event is a first of its kind. There are 2 bars set up with unlimited wine and stemware, a table set up with fancy cheeses and figs, and we are the lucky benefactors of such an event. Everyone smiles and cheers (in a calm calculated tone, cause we fancy and ish).

Enter Ratchet…

Let’s fck this sh*t up… Turn these tables over, break this glass… Turn up!

Wait. Do what?

You should never, ever, eva show and share nice things with your friends. Never. Granted, this friend had no intentions of going through with said plot. Problem was, the delivery of the line was so timely, so well choreographed, so damn believable. He leaned in, so only we four could hear the exchange like he was about to give us the crop report before the stock market opened #TradingPlaces. Before I laughed, I was like, …damn, like really tho? …is he for fake or for serious Lord? *clutched pearls and wine glass* 

#NoNeedToWasteThisThisTastyFreeWine

Just um…next time, go by yourself. 

That Beautiful Sound #AllWeHaveBeenGranted

I learned this week that a woman who was like another mother is no longer in this land that we live in. Her body will soon press that dying pillow my Daddie was talking about, and her soul is crossing Jordan’s river…making that pilgrimage home.

And I feel some type of way about it.

There are so many memories of that woman. She worked alongside my mother for many years at Ravenswood City School District. I can remember calling that office line as a little girl from Willow Oaks School, and years later as a litte(r) grown(er) girl from Westwood. And anytime my Mommie couldn’t answer, she was there telling me when she’d be back, or giving me permission to stay afterschool, or reminding me of what my Mommie already said I couldn’t do. #HowDoTheyAlwaysKnow #iTriedHer #itDidntWork #MyVillageWasHellaStrongTho

I did exactly what she said. I trusted her every word like it was attached to the umbilical cord that once bound me to my sustenance. Like I would disobey her? Yea, okay.

When I got the news of her passing, I called my Grandmother to let her know. I then called my parents, as they are miles and miles away and wouldn’t get the news. When my Daddie didn’t answer, I sent a text message so at least they would have the information in real time. He replied with his condolences. I revealed my sadness, something I never do with my Daddie. And he, knowing the importance of that, shared words with me that I once gave him as he laid in a hospital bed months and months ago, God always knows what’s best. *insert tears here*

I’m a lot like Robert Langdon. I would have given him the same answer. I’m an academic (too), so I know very well that I will never understand God. My mind says it, and I believe that. My heart tells me that I am not meant to understand. But what of my faith? It is a gift that I have received, unlike the Professor, but I don’t know that I’ve opened it all the way. Because there are days like this that I cannot seem to understand. #thesearesnippetsofmyAngelsAndDemons

And that was supposed to send me to a deep, dark place. Because when things like this happen, that’s where those of us who have yet to open up our faith all the way go. Two things happened though.

A rememory. I came out to California in April of 2013 for an interview. I spent part of that time at Church with my Granny. Because if you know Dorothy Neil (don’t tell her I told yall her name) then you know that if you’re in town visiting, you need to be in service with her, on that pew, 3 rows from the back. As I sat next to granny, I was behind that woman. We were singing the congregational hymns. I was singing the hymn directly behind her. Now I know I cannot sing. This is a gift that remains not only unopened, but um, I haven’t quite gotten it yet. I think it got lost in the mail.

...what y'all hear when I sing.

She turned around, before seeing, that sound came from me, and said, Where is that beautiful sound coming from? So, obviously, I turned around to see where that sound was coming from, right? So I could tell her. I knew exactly who I was standing behind, but she could not have known that I was behind her.

As I came into view her face lit up. She was so happy to see me, and I was like Surprise! Much like my road trips, I show up in places and shock people…cause its fun. Anyway, she hugged me and loved on me a little during the service, then a little more afterward. Like a mommie does a daughter, even when she isn’t the mommie, and you aren’t the daughter. If you close your eyes, the love feels that way.

...what she hears.

I’ve often thought about that moment, because when it comes to my singing, this is clearly a genetic gift from my Daddie. Not a single person ever has said anything to me, in the way of I like your singing. Because they believe in telling the truth. And the truth hurts. And I stand in that pain gracefully. But why her? What did she hear that no other person in this world hears?

Me. She heard me. The voice of someone she loved as her own. And there was so much time between the last time she heard that voice, until that moment, that she only heard beautiful things. She heard me sing, and everything about that, even the sound....was beautiful.

A reminder. On the day I got the news of her passing, I decided to sit. Sit in my home all day. Alone. Not so much to cry, or grieve, or anything like that. I just couldn’t fathom the thought of being around anyone. I could have made it successfully through the work day. One of my talents is keeping the deep things of me deep. However, I could have also snapped the F off on the first person to say a cross word about anything. And because I know I fall somewhere on the deep end of the crazy spectrum, I decided it was best for all of us for me to not attend Monday.

A really tall girlfriend of mine decided she wanted to see if I had grown any since the last time she was here. So she did what any person would do. Put on heels, thus making herself taller, to give the appearance that I didn’t grow at all. #JustHateful LOL

She wanted to bring me a box. A purple box. OMG! This box is everything. I actually would have been totally happy with just a box, because it’s adorable and the right color. But the weight was off. And because science, I opened it. It has the prettiest turquoise lining and stuffing, and a book. The book has beautiful words and reflections to remind me of all the love the Lord put in the world for me. To remind that me that my journey, on days like this where I see only 1 set of footprints in my life, He is carrying me through it. Why is that so easy to forget to remember? Of all the promise keepers, He is the best one.

The words she spoke to me and the words she wrote to me still bring actual tears to my eyes. To be told of the kind and beautiful things I did for her (not on purpose and with no effort at all), things that she was doing for me in that moment and did not know… There are lots of reasons people come up with to not believe in the divine power of God. But for all of those reasons, there was that day she knocked on my door with a purple, unevenly weighted box. None of those reasons explain the divine happening of that.

On a day that the Lord retired one of His best soldiers, He dispatched another one, to save a broken one. I often take for granted all I have been granted.

I Just Need Time To See... #OnMyDonellJones

Are you where you thought you’d be? #thechallengecontinues

Nope. Not even close. The place I thought I would be in life nearing the middle of my thirties looks nothing like this. Doesn’t remotely resemble it. It's actually, if you put them side to side, is much less than all my former thoughts. But I suppose that is expected, right? The life we see for ourselves is limited only by what we know at the time. And then you start living, and things change. And you learn to limit your experience by all the things that happen to you. Life changes around you. And you start changing life too.

Sports Medicine: I’m kind of there, I suppose. I let go of that childhood dream of becoming a sports doctor when I realized that I loved sports way more than I loved doctors. I am totally okay with it. I realize now what I wanted, and how I wanted it for the wrong reasons. I’m glad that am where I am professionally. I get to help shape the next generation, which includes many student-athletes. I might inspire greatness. I also have the opportunity to heal other types of wounds and injuries… And though I had no idea that I would be in this place, doing this work, this was exactly what I wanted for my life.

In Love: I'm a mess *queues up Anthony Hamilton* Lawdy, Lawd, Lawd. I mean, it’s a controlled mess, but a mess, nonetheless. I’m working on it though, one blog post at a time. I believed though, that by now, I would have found some piece of someone’s heart to hold on to. But I understand now that having peace of heart is so much more. And I’m okay with not being where I thought I would be - for now. If it weren’t for this path, I may not ever have found that lesson. But, in order to survive the lesson, you’ve got to fill the empty side of your bed with lots and lots of pillows. So I’ve heard. #thisisnotme #ormylife #stoplookingatmewithyourjudgement

PhDeezy: Yea, about that. Two degrees down and one to go. It’s in progress, kinda. I’ve had to defer that dream a spell so I could face reality. When your family needs you, that’s what matters. Though my academic aspirations are everything to me, my family is everything else. They were here for my firsts; I will always be there when they are at their lasts. It’s interesting though, I thought I would have more feelings of regret and sorrow, for temporarily giving up something that means so much to me. But, this showed me that there was something that meant a whole hell of a lot more.

Married With Children: My ring finger is bare and there aren’t any lil’runners scooting about this place. I believed I would have some version of a wedding scrapbook to show you, and I definitely thought that my uterus would have been more useful by this time in my life. You know, those expected things. To have met the man, have the child, and set some roots in some ground somewhere (near an airport). But no. I’ve been living the life of the alchemist in training, the lonely nomad, the isolated wanderer…I could go on. Though, I do not have children of my own, I have godchildren that I own. Five god-girls and a god-son. Nurture is a word that has been used to describe me. I think we all assumed I would nurture something I created #LikeThisHereBlog. But nurturing the creations of others has given my existence meaning I could never have known.

So, I’m clearly not where I thought I would be. Where is this place I currently reside?

Glad you wondered. I’m a runner. If you couldn’t tell by the blog or the #14in2014 challenge, then I’ll show you the receipts. Running shoes are expensive, race registrations are sometimes due in the middle of the month, and you have to fly to some start lines before you run. I never, in all my life (before my life as a runner) believed that I would be a runner. Have a desire to run for fun. Talk other people into running with me. Get jealous when I see other people running when I have something to do. I talk about running like I talk about shoes. And you know how I feel about shoes. Right? Exactly.

Also, as evidenced by the blog, I’m a writer of sorts in the making, kinda. I’ve had a small host of people tell me that this was something I should consider doing, and I never took them seriously. I never saw myself as a writer, or believed that the things I wrote would be of interest to anyone outside of family and professors. I mean, I’m no Toni Morrison…and I never will be. But, I’m someone who has a story, no matter how it compels you. Once I get over that, the compelling piece, I’ll really step into this writing thing. Now that I am seeing myself as something of a writer, I want my words to mean something. What my uterus hasn’t done, my hands have. I plan to nurture that, until something else grows inside of me.

I am vulnerable. In the past ten or so years, I have cried. Cried tears I should have shed ten years prior. I get emotional. Like I buy these things – emotions – in bulk, at Costo, on Saturdays, after all those free samples. And though I have always worn my mood on my face, I was a bit of a brick wall. You might know I’m not pleased, but you never knew to what depths. I had a poker face in that regard. It’s gone now. A series of disappointments in life (love mostly) has broken through the brick will like Berlin circa 1989. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I miss the control, but I love the freedom to feel. And not apologizing for it. No matter the level of rationality. Something about accepting your humanity. And not apologizing for it. Or the tears.

I am patient – with myself. I have always been a patient person. I understand that we all need to figure things out. I don’t jump to conclusions about how people respond to the way life happens, or little kids crying for attention, or folks who take too long to order their food at Chipotle #wellsometimesyouknowwhatimean. I have never been patient with myself. I’m so hard on myself for making a mistake. I can’t understand how I could not have known. I always speed myself through disappointments, heartbreaks, and sadnesses. It happened, that sucks, get over it. And because I did not let the process happen, it just built the wall higher and thicker. These days though, I get sad, and I don’t apologize for it. Sometimes it lasts a day, other times it lasts a week. But now, unlike before, once it’s gone, it’s gone. I didn’t always give my scabs time to heal the emotional bruises underneath. I’m patient enough now to trust the process.

Though I am not where I thought I would be starring scarily at the middle of my thirties, I am okay. I want a family of my own, created with my somebody’s son. I want to keep running. I want to have a terminal degree hanging next to my race medals. I want to experience love in every way, not just these limited, varied, fleeting forms I’ve come to know, and let go of... And even though it frightens me more than that one time this happened, I’m even okay with peeling back more of my layers. Being exposed in ways I never wanted to be. I want to be more confident. Feel beautiful every day, not just on dress up days.

Interesting though, I have felt like I’m “less” not having achieved what I thought I would at this time in my life. I’m thinking now though, that I might be “less” had I realized all those things today.

Amazing how perspective changes the view.

Nickie & Nateezy

If I were Wesley Snipes writing my I may never see you again, you changed my life letter, of all the people who passed through my human experience, Nickie (NB) would get one.

Definitely.

He would have to read it between trips because he is a pilot. There was a time when that made me fearful of airplanes (I knew him way back when) but I have no worries about it today. He doesn’t spend much time on land. He is super busy making the skies super friendly.

I miss him.

Before airplanes, he was a kid from Kentucky starting school at Middle Tennessee State University. Before this, I was a kid fresh out of graduate school starting her first professional full time student affairs position. And, we unknowingly started these lives together.

I was not sure that he would realize his dreams as a first year Aerospace major living on the 7^th floor of Cummings Hall. Not that I didn't believe he had the ability, or drive, or passion to do it, I just didn’t think that I would not be around to see it. He would be my resident for a designated period of time, and we would matriculate to the next season in life. I did not know that we would know each other beyond our time in Murfreesboro. Though we had a great relationship, our histories, our backgrounds, our interests, our lives were so divergent. I believed I would eventually see less and less of him, until a time when he would be something, and I would be somewhere else. And that was okay.

Until it wasn’t.

I was on one of my random road trips. Not really random, it was my annual holiday pilgrimage home. This year, it was from Hamilton NY to Hooks TX. I’ll wait while you google map that. I cannot stay awake for more than 20 minutes of an hour car ride, but I can (and have) drive 20 hours straight. Crazy, right?

So, on this epic road excursion in my explorer circa 2008, I was passing through Kentucky. I planned to stop in Clarksville TN for a short break, gas, food, and a kiss from my great uncle James. Only, I was still in Kentucky, and it was getting darker and darker. And it was raining. And it was December. And it was 40 degrees. And I was driving. Alone.

Then the temperature dropped another 10 degrees. And it started raining harder. It was later in the evening. I wasn’t afraid though, considering the circumstances. But I knew this was dangerous. And I know that I was not qualified or capable to do this on my own. I slowed my speed. I began looking (though incredibly difficult to see) for places I could potentially exit the Interstate. I was preparing myself for that call I was going to have to make to my great uncle who had no idea I was en route because an important part of these epic road trips is not telling anyone I’m on them. I mean, because, well…I be last minute with –ish and I think it’s a super awesome surprise to just show up. The looks on people’s faces?!?! LOVE IT! Which is also clear indicator that I’m not too concerned about my life at all. Because, well, current circumstance…

I was planning to get in the right lane because I was in the left lane driving super slow. I mean other people were going slow as well, but I was clearly remarkably slower than the other people used to driving in such weather. As I anxiously made my way down the Interstate teasing the Louisville city limit, I lost control. Completely. Emotionally, Mentally, & Physically. I lost control of my vehicle. The explorer spun violently, round and round, ending up in the grassy middle Interstate divide. The truck was still running. No damage though – well no structural car damage. And me? Without knowing what to do, I just let go of the wheel and let God have His way #grace

I am not even sure I thought I would die. I mean, I’ve had whoopings that felt more like a near death experience than this one. But, in that moment I knew that there was nothing I could do. I rarely give in to helplessness. This was that time.

And I remained on the side of the road. I decided in that moment that driving a car is silly and I was okay if I never operated a motorized anything ever again. And, if anyone wanted this explorer, it would be on the side of this Interstate as is. It obviously doesn’t need me since it wants to drive itself.

A man eventually came to my truck to see if I was okay. He pulled his vehicle to the opposite side of the road, crossed the dangerous lanes and made sure I wasn’t hurt. He inspected my outsides and was relieved to see that I was okay. But he knew very well just how bruised I was on the inside. He reassured me that I could do this. That my car was okay and I could drive it to my destination. He helped get my truck back on the Interstate and followed me to my exit.

But that was my problem. My destination. I was in Louisville KY, about 200 miles from Clarksville TN and Louisville was still about 675 miles from Hooks TX. I had no idea where I was going to go. It was super late at night, still raining, still less than 30 degrees outside, and still shaken up. Out of desperation I called Nickie. I mean, he said if I was ever in his City to call him, right?

                   Hey Nick! What’s going on?!

                             Nateezy!!!! Wassssup! *he’s so intoxicated, kinda actually so*

                   So….guess where I am?

                             You’re in KY? No sh*t?! What are you doing here?

Well, I was heading home to Texas, I thought I would call and say hi… *awkward pause* Um, actually…I am scared to death. I’m on the side of the road. My car spun off the road and I don’t know what to do. *CRYING, actually*

Come to my house. You can stay with me. *in the most calm and sober tone ever*

Nickie, I can’t come to your house. What are your parents going to say when you bring on old(er) black lady into the house in the middle of the night? Um, you’re white. We’re in KY. #ConnectTheDotsBro

                        It’s okay, don’t trip. #NickieReallyLovesMe

…and with that, I put his address in the GPS and did exactly as he instructed me to do. It took me forever to get to his house, because well…cars aren’t supposed to do that kind of thing to me. But I made it there.

Nickie gave me a hug with that same smile he greeted me with the first time we met. He grabbed my bags, let me relax, shower and we did shots of Jack Daniels until I was the old lady he once knew again. Happy. Excitable. Engaging. Fun. Silly. He stayed up with me all night until I found me again. The brave me. The me who bounced back from horrible things to be more amazing than the time before.

That’s the beautiful thing about the human condition – when you finally accept your humanity, and it's imperfectness. Being in relationship with people. Nickie and I have known each other since 2006. In that moment, I horcruxed part of me in him, and he in me. And I mean we gave each other these very pure, very whole, very loving parts of ourselves from our MTSU tenure. They’re self sustaining. Can you understand that? Because, when we get together, it’s the most amazing experience two people could have. I’m not indebted to Nickie for that moment in life. It cost him nothing, and he probably would have done it for a complete stranger. I am indebted to him because there is this place in his heart that is just for me, no matter the size. Nobody gets the love that’s grown in that space – it’s for me and I'm imprisoned in that space for all time. And that is a gift; that is a sacrifice that most humans condition themselves to not make.

I have thanked him time and time again for that moment. For that moment that was really a moment between the two of us. His parents never came downstairs that night, and didn’t see me leave the next day. I never told anyone in my family because I did not want them to worry. I cannot even begin to imagine what goes through my Daddie’s mind when his girls are out living, let alone driving 1,400 or so miles all alone. So I never said a mumbling word about it, for the longest time.

I did, however, go down to the Cadillac dealership in Texarkana with Uncle Eddie to get a new car.

…because, well…like you believe I would have gotten back in that thing. You didn’t. You know me too well for that.

I Remember Dianne & Joe #MyJazzParents

I was born in love. Marilou and Poochie game me all that they could. And let the genetics fall where they now remain. We lived, in a house full of other people. There, they raised us to love God, be kind to others, and get good grades. Remember that time I told you about my Mom and how she felt about partial credit?

Many of my childhood memories are not only marked by my spiritual, social and academic educations, but also my musical ones. I have specific memories of music, of songs, of artists, that have literally been with me since the first cord was played. En Vogue’ing in front of the living room mirror to Hold On. Crooning about the way love didn’t go for me as Brian McKnight sang the hooks. And air guitar (pre guitar hero) to Atomic Dawg like none other could do. Like really though. That song came on at a party when I was in graduate school and didn’t know much about NPHC organizations. Needless to say, I had a situation on the skating rink floor. #LessonLearned #TheyCameForMeThough #IWasntReady

#ButIWasHellaHypeThough #NobodyWasSupposedToBeThereButThem

…and life was good. Then I went away. Away from the genetic fount of my birth. The musical cradle of life. Wondering around Westwood with a sony discman attempting to reconnect me to sounds hundreds of miles away.

The Calling: Enter Dianne

I took a Jazz course at UCLA #BruinBests because science majors need electives that do not involve cadaver sections, test tubes, formaldehyde and electrons. We also need to see people not adorned in white lab coats reading unintelligible chemistry equations on graphing paper. It’s kind of a thing there. They want you to have an education formed with many shapes of something…. #WellRounded #theGeometryOfAcademia

…and I love music, so it wasn’t a hard sale. What was? The $25.00 ticket price to go see this lady sing some songs about this lady she “remembered” named Sarah. Back then, $25.00 was a lot of money, and quite frankly, if you remembered her already, what is my purpose?

To be adopted. I was there to meet my musical mom. Dianne Reeves.

She will never know the change in me that day. How I sat in that super-close-for-only-$25-row and listed to her sing life into a generation who could not fathom the essence, let alone life or personage of Sarah Vaughn. I answered her calling.

I just gotta testify... Dianne Reeves saved my musical life. I have listened to the music from that day in just about every state (emotional and geographical) that I have lived in. Calming like I imagine my mother’s voice was as I swam about her uterus. Inspirational as my parent’s hopes for my future. And almost as loving as my Daddie’s smile.

This summer, I got an email from SF Jazz about an upcoming performance. It was a member’s only concert #MembershipHasItsPrivileges. I did not even think about whether or not I had the cash, the time, the resources or the energy to traverse the summer heat and schlep my remains from one end of the Bay Area to the other. I logged onto the website. Bought the closest ticket (which was in basically the last row) and went back to work. It was not until the day of the concert that I realized that I would see my musical mom again.

She hasn’t aged a single bit. Her voice was like the first day we met. And she loved only me in every minute of that show. The vibrant outfit only enhanced the vibrations of her voice in that perfectly designed place. And though she will never know, the profound impact she has made on my life. The fact that she will never know in this moment of professional confusion, sadness and despair that I would recall her reminder about the amazing grace that saved our lives, is just every single thing.

I literally had the best day this past summer at SF Jazz, all by myself listening to her remember Sarah, remember me. 

The Mourning: Exit Joe

I got a musical pops too. His name is Joe. Papa Joe doesn’t say much, at least not with his mouth. He recites monologues with 10 fingers and each key in front of him. We weren’t looking for each other. If anything we were being our introspective selves. Papa Joe minding the business of the CD Rom drive in the computer, me listening to the newly made mix CD from the CD Rom drives in the Sunset computer lab (compiled from all the CDs I owned). Both of us in our own notes.

Then my double A batteries decided I didn’t need to be great. I took my headphone jack out of my CD discman and put it into the computer. Only Sho-nuff Shona left her CD inside. Their CD rather. Joe Sample & Lalah Hathaway. I literally got sick. A fever actually. And it was a lovely way to burn.

The parts of the CD that compelled me most, were the ones in which Lalah stepped aside. Now don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love her. Actually got a chance to see her perform this summer (in the front row!) in Oakland, so um, I’m winning. But something about the music. I honestly believe that every musician means a specific thing, has an identified feeling, is saying a particular thing as they play. The beauty is that we can interpret it to mean whatever we believe it to mean, because that’s there gift to us.

And Papa Joe was explaining that to me. The beauty of a father’s wisdom is that they hold on to it until the very moment they know you need it. Patiently. Watching you develop. Seeing you grow. Basking in every achievement. Aching at your sadness. Urging to fix your unseen wounds. Then, when the time is right, giving you a forehead kiss of wisdom to get you through. Though that time your life was low.

Papa Joe knew that as much as I loved, appreciated, respected and adored music, I did not understand what it was. Music is a gift. Sure we interpret music through our lens, emotions, joys, and pains, but it is created with purpose. It is not made to be this amorphous thing here for our shaping. It’s already done. It’s already whole. It’s already complete. Sometimes, you need only listen. And that be all there is.

But we children of great men know that our fathers won’t be here forever. …and when they are gone, their songs, their genetic compositions, will live on… Even knowing we never prepare for their departure. It always happens so unexpected, and definitely too soon. Papa Joe left me silently this summer. In that moment I almost did what I tend to do when something so devastating happens to me. Retreat to silence. I listen to my loss echo through my mind. #becausemyworldturnedblue

But I listened to a new album that’s been in my iPod queue for a while. Just like Papa Joe would have wanted.

I am thankful for many things. I am indebted to others. Like Marilou and Poochie. Though I haven’t been as careful with the precious life they have given me, I made it mine, if nothing else. That is a debt I will remain outstanding. In every definition of the word.

And Dianne and Joe. Westwood was a time when I could have became anything or nothing. They helped me remember that no matter what I decided, I was already something. And I was worthy of the trouble to figure it out.

The Rupaul Sighting At The Chicago Marathon #ThatWasnt

…because you all love me so much and read all some of these things that I post, I thought I would share this. Remember my friend, as in the guy that is super funny that I totally haven’t met yet but have to introduce him as my friend so this doesn’t seem weird? Yes! That guy from yesterday!!! Well, he decided to recount his Chicago running experience, and now that I have FINALLY stopped laughing, I can share it with you!

OK... So here we go. Chicago is an awesome city with crazy fan support for the marathon. Nothing is more awesome than thousands of people screaming at random strangers as we all foolishly run these insane distances for God only knows why. Yeah 26.2!! We are so stupid. Runners are one of nature’s punch lines. Anyway... Let the stupid begin. My race Chronicles:

1) Couple things I learned early through my own stubbornness... It’s difficult to run with a full bladder and my threshold for holding my breath in a marathon port-a-potty is about 30 seconds. Forced the ‘p’ out so fast almost gave myself a hernia.

2) There’s such a thing as having too many running accessories. Runner has a full book bag, a running belt with six water bottles and other stuff on it. He has a full set of keys clipped to another belt and he’s jingling. Is he running or going camping?

3) 6 miles in. A guy is running in drag (I think) and I swear its Rupaul. So much so that I got up some nerve, ran up on him, and had this exchange:

..or nah, bro? LOL

Me: Rupaul, Rupaul!! What's up man!

Him: Huh? What!? (Sounding pissed!!)

Me: (switching it up) Oh my bad, I thought you were my man Paul that I went to college with. (I sped up... Checked behind me to see if he was chasing) Moving on...

4) 10 miles. I'm starving!!! Got two fig newtons from a race supporter and i swear fo’ God those fig newtons were the greatest ever made on earth. I so wanted to double back but was secretly wishing that he’d get in a car and drive further up in the race so I could see him again. Race hunger makes you irrational.

5) A Native American is in sight and I swear I have no idea this person’s gender. But he/she her/him’s hair was amazing. Is it relaxed? Calves were masculine, facial bone structure somewhat feminine. I stayed within eyesight for about 4 miles trying to figure it out. I got no resolution.

6) Man down. “Too many d@mn accessories” guy is receiving medical attention. Ummm... yeah. I guess he should pitch his camping tent now.

7) 17-18 miles: A small child sent directly from heaven gave me a blue jolly rancher that I so desperately needed. Thank you God, the everlasting Father for sending me your baby candy angel. That Jolly Rancher had a slow sugar release as I let it sit in my mouth for easily 4 miles.

8) An Asian guy is running in a full suit and tie. Jackass. That is all.

9) Mile 20’ish: Two ladies are sort of fussing because apparently one spat water on the other inadvertently at a water stop. Collateral damage I say. We're too far in to these miles for this foolishness

10) Mile 22'ish. Barefoot marathoners? Really? My ankles and achilles would explode. Either that or I'd have athlete's feet up to my crotch.

11) 22 - 23 miles. The 400 lb marathon monster always jumps on my back around these miles. Geez. I feel like a pack mule... the mule who carried Jesus... only the 12 disciples are on me too. This is stupid. Chicago is dumb.

12) Mile 26. What is the deal with these marathon organizers putting hills at the end of the courses? Haven't I proven myself enough?? Can I get a flat finish? Why, Lord whyyyy??

13) I'm finished (hooray me!) And now I'm hording and gathering these snacks like I'm grocery shopping. I think I have a banana tree in my goodie bag along with everything else that was already in there... Make that two good bags. It's amazing the sympathy you get from race volunteers when you’re walking like your 100/years old with dried salt streaks on your face.

Them: Congratulations on your finish!

Me: *thinking* less talking, more snack giving

14) I can't stand the smell of me right now. Next up, 1/2 Ironman in two weeks. #IGotProblems

Didn’t I tell yall that I love this dude?!?! Hit him up! Congratulate him on his Chicago Marathon greatness. Tell him how crazy awesome he is for taking on an Ironman! Or pray for him, because he knows what he’s doing, and he does it anyway… You got the info…but if you’re too lazy to go to yesterday’s post, here you go: m.kendrick.miles@gmail.com