A Clever Title About Clinical Depression: Music

If I waited to come up with a a title I liked I might never actually write this, so deep breath, friends, and away we go.

I’m going to start at the end.

I think that will make it easier for me, for all of us really.

Hiding. From my children. To listen to taytay.

Last week, I started listening to music again. I put Taylor Swift’s Folklore on in the car in an attempt to mellow the kids on a long drive down to the beach for a getaway, and it worked, but something else happened too. I opened the sun roof. I turned the volume up, flying down PCH with four of my very favorite people in the whole wide world. I felt it, the music, the ocean air, all of it, rushing through my body. Later that weekend, I went for bike ride all alone, earbuds in, volume up, Folklore again, my own private soundtrack, riding with no hands down the alleys along the beach, grinning through my mask. At the end of the weekend, Jim took the kids home and I stayed to clean and close up the beach house. Folklore, on my phone, in a coffee cup to amplify the sound, while I sang off key, vacuumed and folded the endless pile of towels. At some point, at some key change, I felt my breath catch in my throat, and realized I was crying. I sat on the floor, heavy with the realization that I haven’t listened to music for the last three years. I’ve certainly heard music or had music inflicted on me, but it has been about three years since I’ve had the capacity to listen to it. I’m sure I’ll branch out from Taytay, but right now I’ve captured some neurological lightning in a bottle and I’m working slowly from there.

Over the past six months I’ve been discovering a lot of things that drifted and were ripped away while during my nearly 3 year long depressive episode: my laugh when it is free and easy, not sarcastic and full of pain, my body, alive and thrumming, stronger than I realized and a source of great joy, my mind, brimming with half formed ideas eager for debate and encouragement, and a well of compassion and patience that I really feared I had lost, all together

But music, (deep breath, Kate), I had truly forgotten about music.

There is so much more of this story to tell, parts that are much harder, so much so that it just felt safer for all of us, to start with the happy ending. Last night, I put on Dolly Parton in the kitchen and Penny and I danced like fools to Jolene, singing at the top of our lungs. I told you I was branching out, apparently sticking with yellow-haired sultry songbirds for now, but I’ve got time. There has been a lot of shit over the past three years, (oh, fair warning, I swear like a fucking sailor now), but there has been a lot of joy too. Standing on the beach with a dear and kindred soul just yesterday, It struck me that I’ve been clinically depressed the whole time I have know her.

I wanted to start this story in a place that felt like hope, like possibility, because that is a place where we can all start together. I’m hoping to share more here soon, if you are interested, if it might help. Don’t misunderstand, even after these three years and this journey, I’m still not sure how today ends, but I’d love the company while we find out, together.

Summer Sounds at the Hollywood Bowl

O: I want to go to the Huntington Bowl and hear the music. 

This is late in coming, but if you have littles and are in the LA area you have six more chances to go. These world music concerts are fun, engaging for kids as young as two, and a great way to spend a summer day. They take place in a smaller space adjacent to the Bowl and are very thoughtfully done. This year we have heard Indian music and West African music.

You can usually get tickets at the box office the day of, so you can skip the online processing fee, and parking is free. Your ticket includes a craft related to the music and the performers, ushers, and art staff are all really friendly and happy to be there. We usually bring a picnic and eat on the grass by the box office when we are done. 

Check here for more info: http://www.hollywoodbowl.com/summersounds

We have so much fun, I always forget to take pictures. 

The Hollywood Bowl is a magical place. Its history sings and I just like being there. Summer is wrapping up. Let's soak in the city as much as we can. Let's stay up late and watch the stars. Let's eat fro-yo for dinner. Let's go to the Hollywood Bowl. Maybe I'll see you there next week for Latin Jazz. 

Lullabies: A Class in Writing the Perfect Bedtime Song

O:  NOOOOOOOOOOO! I don't want that song. I want a daisy song.

J:  I don't know a daisy song.

O:  Just make one up!

The first time I tried to sing to tiny newborn O, I realized that I didn't know any lullabies all the way through. There was a lot of, "Lullaby...da da da...da da da da da da da." So I YouTubed everything from Brahms to The Muppets. As a frustrated shower singer, it was very satisfying because I developed my own set of songs and had a captive audience.

First song on the playlist.  A forever classic.

And then O learned to talk. Suddenly I began meeting with crushing rejections. My singing made her ears hurt. She didn't want to hear the songs I had been singing to her for months, especially the Bleshings Song.  

Now that she is almost four, she prefers improv. She picks the theme and I make a song up, lyrics and melody on the spot. I'm not sure if she genuinely enjoys the songs, or just enjoys listening to me fumble my way through these bedtime ditties.

I take direction very well.

The songs will not be recorded for posterity. I believe they are largely forgotten even before her head hits the pillow and the sounds of gentle snoring begin, but I do hope that the memories of this bedtime improv routine will live on and bring a smile to our faces in years to come.

See, she digs it.

P is not quite so discerning yet. I can still dust off some of those YouTubed standards for her, but once she gets wise, Kate and I might have to have a serious talk about creating a new captive audience member for my hit parade.