There have been so many moments in my life when music is more than just a gentle backdrop of white noise, that's pretty much all my moments if I am being honest. It has often become the lens through which I look at myself, my past, and the intricate dance of connections that have shaped who I am. Lately, I have found myself in such a moment. Three songs that scrolled by one after the other in a playlist, one from Old Dominion, one from Eric Church, and the last from Kenny Chesney, did more than act as background noise. They illuminated my life’s journey, casting both shadows and light on the faces and memories that define my story.
It began
with Old Dominion’s “I Miss Ya Man,” a song that opened the door to
memories I carry, loved ones lost along my six decades long journey. Each
verse was a quiet invitation to revisit those Brothers and Sisters from other
Mothers who are no longer with us. The
childhood laughter with Alison Bodey, and later, the years we dated, we rode
along for 44 years. The steadfast friendship of Lyndon Boyer, one of
the best human beings I have ever known, we shared the road for 45 years. I
realized, as the melody played, that certain stories now live only in my heart.
The laughter, the exaggerations, the moments that once belonged to “us,” now
rest in my memory alone. There was sorrow in that realization, and unexpected
gratitude, too, for having shared such precious chapters with each of them.
The song
reminded me, grief is a companion on the ride of life. It’s there in the missed goodbyes to friends
like Debbie, whose recent passing I’m still processing. It lingers in the memories of those, like
Eric, Grady, and Cary, who found the world too heavy to bear. In recalling them, I’m reminded not only of
loss, but also of the enduring bonds that even death cannot sever. Their
stories and love continue to shape who I am and who I am becoming.
Eric
Church’s “Those I’ve Loved” followed, and with it, a wave of gratitude.
The song’s quiet truths, lessons from a grandfather, the strength of those
who’ve walked beside us echoed my own life. Some important people in my young life helped
me like a grandfather would’ve if I’d had one. Alva, Don, and Rodney were
instrumental in shaping who I am today and it was a reminder that none
of us arrives at our present alone. We’re
molded by the kindness, patience, and generosity of countless souls along the way. Some of whom remain and others who’ve moved
on. In being reminded of what I already
knew, I feel compelled to offer thanks to all who’ve walked with me. Life is
too fleeting for appreciation to go unsaid.
Kenny
Chesney’s “When I See This Bar” completed the musical trilogy, painting
a portrait of memory and belonging. The bar became a symbol, not just of time
spent with friends but of those suspended moments when we stand between who we
were and who we’re becoming. Faces change, stories evolve, but the longing to
connect remains constant, a universal chord that reverberates through every one
of our lives.
The
cumulative impact of these songs was profound. They’ve offered me a renewed
sense of purpose, to cherish those beside me, literally and figuratively, honor those who are no longer with us, and
savor the transient beauty of every gathering, every conversation, every shared
silence. They remind me the ride is unpredictable and finite but made
immeasurably better by the company that travel along with us and the love we share
with them.
With each
loop of the playlist, the meaning deepened for me. I see my own journey with greater clarity, not
just for myself, but for everyone who’s traveled alongside me, even those who
were there for a short stretch. Music,
in this way, is both salve and guide, helping me embrace the fullness of my
story and a reminder to always lead with gratitude into whatever chapters I have remaining.
So, to those
I’ve loved along the way, thank you for your presence, laughter, and your light.
Thank you for helping me become, in ways small and profound, a better
human. May we all find the courage to
say “I love you” freely, honor our memories, our stories and make the most of
the time we share on this wild, beautiful ride of life.
Beginning a
new chapter in a place we’ve never been is equal parts exhilarating and
disorienting at the same time. I often find myself
longing for the closeness and physical presence of friends who know the rhythm
of my life, my past, the shorthand conversations, the inside jokes, and quiet
companionship that only years together can forge. As Dolly and Kenny sang, “You Can’t
Make New Old Friends.”
Feelings of
isolation don’t knock loudly, sometimes they hum faintly in the background like
the white noise of life. In those
moments, I will remember these three songs. “I Miss Ya Man” reminds me
that love and grief share space. “Those I’ve Loved” nudges me toward
gratitude and the roots of who I am. And
“When I See This Bar” reminds me that memory can turn any place into
sacred ground, wherever I am and whenever I reflect.
So yes, I
feel isolated at times. But I also know these feelings are transient and are part
of the reshaping that comes with writing a spanking new chapter. I carry y’all with me in the details, in the
music, in how I greet strangers with warmth, wondering if a micro-relationship
might blossom into something more. And I
know this season, like all others, will eventually bloom. The ache of loss of the familiar will soften,
the streets will start to feel like mine own, and I’ll find my new tribes - and
I know they’ll add to the amazing tapestry that is my life.
Thanks for
being my friend and joining me on this journey.
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