Friday night a friend and I took B to her first concert. We saw Allison Russell perform on a beautiful summer evening with a waxing moon and vibrant stage and open hearts.
I only discovered Allison Russell this spring, but I fell in love immediately. Finding affordable tickets to see her live, an hour from my house at an old country fairground, was serendipitous. It was a perfect first concert for B: inspiring, packed with social justice, a celebration of womanhood and inclusivity. Allison Russell began her set by asking the audience to join her band in their pre-performance ritual of shouting, "Vulva!"
Watching her perform -- open but defiant, full of joy but never forgetting her pain or the pain of the world -- reminded me of one of the very first Emily Dickinson poems I learned and loved:
I'm ceded -- I've stopped being Theirs --
The name They dropped upon my face
With water, int he country church
Is finished using, now,
And They can put it with my Dolls,
My childhood, and the string of spools,
I've finished threading -- too --
Baptized, before, without the choice,
But this time, consciously, of Grace --
Unto supremest name --
Called to my Full -- The Crescent dropped --
Existence's whole Arc, filled up,
With one small Diadem.
My second Rank -- too small the first --
Crowned -- Crowing -- on my Father's breast --
A half unconscious Queen --
But this time --Adequate -- Erect,
With Will to choose, or to reject,
And I choose, just a Crown --
c.1862
I think B thoroughly enjoyed the concert. She experienced it as an 8-almost-9-year-old: openly. When the spot where we spread our blanket became blocked by a group of young adults standing, she walked around and sat down right. In. The. Front. Row. Like, no one between her and the stage. There were only a couple of other folks bold enough to do this. I would not normally be one of them. Can we do that?! I whispered to my friend. We shrugged. No one asked B to leave, so we joined her. A quiet but significant lesson.
Partway through the set, probably thinking about all the music and lyrics and stories Allison and her band had learned, B remarked: They must do a lot of remembering! Yes.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Oh, there's so much. The original plan was to debrief and catch up with my friend on a drive this morning, but C needed extra support last night and no one slept much. So I write.
I am grateful for friends who tolerate/accept/love my children for their irreverence without offence or judgment. B lifting up my friend's arm and asking if she had arm hair. The friend who FaceTimed my children to share stories of his childhood misbehavior to show them that yes, everyone makes mistakes.
I am grateful for our time at the neighboring city pool yesterday. The ridiculous privilege we have to go and pay pennies to swim in a pristine, Olympic-length oasis with eight lifeguards and views of the harbor. B identified a girl her age coming through the gate, announced, I'm going to make friends with her, and did. C practiced floating on his back and then taught a little girl who quietly asked him for help.
I'm grateful for my in-laws for watching my kids last night so my husband and I could go out to dinner, a rare treat.
I'm grateful for all of the books I surrounded myself with this morning in an attempt to figure out how to navigate the sea of pain.
I am grateful for my friend who, even though I couldn't go with her this morning, brought me an iced coffee made exactly how I like it.
I am grateful for my father, who invited our family to the beach this afternoon, another rare gift that I hope to accept.
I am grateful for my hair stylist, who made me feel beautiful yesterday (why do I want to be beautiful?), and shared a deep, vulnerable, conversation.
I am grateful that I can witness and share my children's suffering. It is the worst thing in the world, but, and I have to believe this, perhaps their ability to vocalize and share the deep, unbearable emotions means that they will discover at a young age what I learned after several decades: anguish is universal, even if it takes different forms, and the ability to surround yourself with people who love you and who will sit with you through the storm is the only way to get through life. I want them to learn that bravely weathering the pain with safe company, rather than going it alone, bravely being vulnerable, living out loud, and sharing the big emotions, is the only way to develop the relationships that make life worth living.
And now, because the antidote to thinking is doing, I need to rejoin my family and face the day.
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