I’m up waaaaay too late on a Saturday, trying not to think about how I’m going to have to A+ parent in about 5.5 hours. I’m hanging out on the couch in my PJs, with my dog, where I’ve been since 10 pm when my husband went to sleep. After watching three Law and Order: SVUs (two of which I actually hadn’t seen before – shockingly), 1 am rolled around and I browsed our 25 channels for something else to watch.

Enter CNN’s “The Seventies: What’s Goin’ On”. I did whatever the 1 am, slightly buzzed equivalent of swooning is.

I have always had a love of music in my blood, bones, skin, soul; but in recent years I’ve let it fade. Even before I had my daughter (almost two years ago), even before I got married (almost four years ago), right about when I bought my house (seven years ago), I became a bit of a homebody. I wasn’t going out like I used to. I wasn’t dancing wildly at bars to 90s pop or club bangers from the 2000s, I wasn’t pre-gaming in my living room playing classic rock and soul records, and I wasn’t insisting on blasting my oldies mix on my iPod at backyard parties on sticky summer nights. But at least then, I was still listening to the radio in the car, wherever I went.

Now, at 33 and the mother of a toddler and a woman trying to be a little more politically engaged, my ears have been filled with NPR and books on tape during my daily commute. I didn’t realize it, and it sounds overly dramatic, but I’ve been losing a little bit of what makes me, me. It took this two-year old CNN special to shake me and rock me and throttle me into remembering what music means to me.

Carole King came up just a few minutes in and I made a bee-line for my record shelf. The fourth LP I pulled was Tapestry and I sighed and I smelled that smell of the cardboard and the sleeves and I wondered what I’ve been doing these past few years. Sure I’ve pulled up Google Play and put on the classic rock channels and I’ve played all sorts of music for my daughter, but I haven’t lived music for her. And I haven’t lived music for me. I turn on the radio to what’s popular and what’s easy and I don’t bother to dust off my records or rifle through filthy bins of vinyl at Goodwill anymore.

When I really listen to music, I can feel the music – I never knew what it was called until an article about frisson randomly showed up on my Facebook feed one day. Sometimes I try to sing a verse and I choke up; it may not be a particularly sad song, really any song with emotion in the singer’s voice, or any song that pokes at some memory deep within me. I really don’t have a point or conclusion to this post. I guess that’s what happens when you just start tapping away at 1 am on a whim without any real plan. Fin.


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