This is gonna sound super old because I'm super old and anyone that's a peer of mine will feel alienated or endeared and anyone who knows me who's older will feel ancient and tender, and anyone within 10 years younger (or so) will feel a slight connection and have an "I think I'm all about it" moment, and everyone younger than that will have stopped reading by now because they read "tinder" instead of "tender" and be on their way to purchase condoms. I hope.
But. If on some gray, hundredth day of rain, and fog, and dense skies, and drizzle, and no sun, and no positivity and all your triggers triggering and you wishing a million things had been different, but NOT the things you're blessed weren't different, and the wind piles up against the house and you have a flash of how much you owe versus how much you earn and the vision of your kids pry into your consciousness and your hope/fear for them fights for attention in your cranium and you convince yourself, like you're supposed to, that you've done your best — all you can — but there still seems to be vapors in the gas tank that you could've spent on them like you did when they were 7, but now spend on yourself, b'cause you're conscious of the fact that you're not timeless anymore and dammit, it feels almost like you deserve a damn break, even though the love of your life doesn't get one b'cause of you and if only you had the words, Word Man, to say something, you would, but since you don't, because vocabulary is manmade, you resort to music. The better choice for saying anything and always has been: Choose, at least once in your short, tiny life: Felix Mendelssohn, Violin Concerto in E Minor (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1dBg__wsuo). This is Hilary Hahn's version. Slightly more talented and entertaining than Kim Kardashian, her dimwit hubby, or the Bachelorette. Like I said, I'm old and own it.
Just Do It. I know it sounds stuffy and boring, but it isn't. He was born in 1809. Germany. Died in 1847. Short life. Not super sweet. Heavily influenced by J.S. Bach, Mendelssohn was a player and composer. And, while Germany was middle aged by then, remember, 1809 was within 50 years of America's birth. Napoleon was at the end of his rampage. James Madison was the U.S. president, succeeding Thomas Jefferson, who, a few years earlier, when he sent Lewis and Clark on their westward mission, encouraged them to "draw as many of the dinosaurs as you encounter." Like now, even smart folks don't know what they don't know. Things were raw and early. Sorta like now.
And Mendelssohn, at the time of the writing of this concerto, was in his early 30s. He died at 38. So..... humbling. How many of us 38-year-olds can claim to have done as much?
Yes, a lot of us have great careers, purchased houses, made tons of cash, raised kids, raced motorcycles down Morris Thomas Road, straightened teeth and spinal columns and filled cavities and issued traffic tickets, and pushed each other down the Pinehurst sliding hill, despite the ice, and sold each other ground chuck or fried chuck at Ronald's House and made paper that we know is becoming digitized so diving into pulp and cardboard, hoping we can time it right; and most of us admirably, expeditiously. Others have raised other things. Cats. Hemp. Portfolios. Gardens. Memories. We convince ourselves that's enough...insteada chasing the dragons we swore to ourselves we'd never abandon and did anyway.
Mendelssohn died before he gave in. Lucky bastard.
Pour yourself a glass of wine. But not six. Just one. And sit somewhere comfortable. Dim the lights. Not amorous. Be ready. Receptive. Appreciate how amazing humans can be. And listen. And I dare you to not be moved.