I bummed around all day yesterday.
Yesterday was the first Father's Day without Dad.
I wasn't depressed or sad or weepy.
It was just different, and contemplative.
There should have been a greeting card to make or buy; a gift to give; a schedule to coordinate; a meal to enjoy.
I was supposed to be doing something.
It was his day--and he liked his day.
He'd often joked that Fathers' Day never quite got the props that Mothers' Day enjoyed.
"It's March and everybody is asking, When is Mothers' Day? September comes, and people ask, "Wait! When was Fathers' Day? Did we miss it?"
“How come the church don't have to put chairs in the aisles on Fathers' Day? Why the scholarship committee always got to have their program on Fathers' Day?"
It was weird not having a plan concerning him, so, I went to his office and finished filling the large, three-ring binder I found, with the last of his memorabilia that I'd rescued from the big box of stuff that's destined for a commercial shredder.
My parents (bless their responsible, organized, forward-thinking hearts, and God rest their souls) kept everything--neatly and compactly, I might add---but I mean EVERYTHING.
Last year, Dad was in the hospital on Father's Day. The year before that, I remember him sheepishly asking, just before he'd decided to go to bed that Saturday night, "You going to church with me in the morning?"
As much as I tried to convince him to embrace the 11:00 service, as opposed to his beloved 7:45 service, I remember laughing and saying, "Of course, I'm going, Dad! It's Father's Day!"
Yesterday felt so odd. There had always been a plan.
I didn't want to go just anywhere, even though for years, there was always somewhere I was expected to be, at a certain time, on the third Sunday in June.
It was never about me, but celebrating him, and honoring his wishes--and choice of restaurant (or not). It was all about what to give to the guy who seemed to have everything.
The idea of a new normal really struck me yesterday. It was as if I had to give myself permission to do, or not do something different.
I could hear him admonishing, "You can't park here. Live your life."
Every day since he's died, that I chose to spend hours sorting and organizing papers, letters, notes, documents, photos, and knickknacks, I've learned more and more how much of an exciting, full, diverse, often daring, deliberate, and unapologetic life my Dad lived. He knew something about fun, too.
I realized how artistic he was, and from the 45's and albums, cassettes and tapes (and his incessant singing, humming, and whistling), knew for sure that he loved good music.
I remembered that I do, too, and good music was beckoning me from Georgetown.
I logged on to the website of DC's historic Blues Alley, took advantage of the promo code I had been sent in an email, and purchased one ticket. I realized that my "hangability" factor has drastically changed.
The time when I used to be getting ready to go out, has become the time that will find me already in bed, or fast asleep.
Planning to go anywhere at night, means I definitely want to go.
I recalled what one of my favorite comedians, Sinbad, quipped, "Have you ever gotten dressed to go out, and then you messed around and sat down?"
I knew exactly what he meant. A chair or sofa can change my mind in a flash.
When did going out lose its appeal?
Sinbad also talked about how annoyed you get when your doorbell rings at a certain hour:
"Who the hell is that? It's six thirty!"
These AARP days, when I'm tired, no matter what time it is, it's a wrap.
I was not, however, going to miss what I knew would be a memorable and healing experience.
That's what great music does---it heals. And I do make a distinction between what's great and what's not; what I'll pay for, and what I'll pass on.
There is nothing like live music done well. that's free of the technological innovation that so often fools audiences, until the power goes out or the computer crashes.
I'm a 60's baby. My hearing has been spoiled rotten. I'm grateful for being born into a time when music was spectacular, authentic, and intentional;
when lyrics and sound and blend mattered;
when singers sang.
I wanted to hear an actual voice, and actual sounds coming from actual instruments, manipulated by actual, skilled musicians.
Youtube couldn't have done it for me yesterday.
I thought about what Dad used to say, "If you're going to do something, let it be your idea."
So, I pushed past my usual "It's too late, you're tired, maybe next time" MO, let Lyft do the driving, and I took myself out.
I'm so glad I did. I'm still smiling.
Lisa Fischer's voice, alone, is a wonder of nature; a lush, creative, versatile, fun, intricate, unpredictable gift to the ear. Coupled with the soul-stirring sounds of Grand Baton, founded by Pointe-a-Pitre's own multi-talented, guitarist and singer, Jean Christophe Maillard, with Aiden Carrol playing masterfully on basses big and small, and Thierry Arpino keeping the Afro-Caribbean beat, it's just a party for your senses.
They not only made spectacular music, they were having a grand time doing it, and everyone was invited to come along.
They gelled in a way that let you know these people like and respect each other.
There was humility in their manner, and their smiles were genuine. There was something so special about it all that made me feel as if no two concerts of theirs are ever the same. They invited the audience in to their musical family and there was such joy and healing there.
After the concert, I had a chance to thank Ms. Fischer for sharing so unselfishly. There she was. Just a few feet away, smiling, and so unassuming and kind. She hadn't rushed upstairs to the dressing room to avoid anyone. Maybe she was tired, but you wouldn't have known.
I'm not usually the one to ask for selfies, but I did this time.
She took my phone, searched for light in the dim room, positioned the phone in the air, and graciously snapped two photos.
That gesture really meant a lot.
I'd entered the venue one way, and was leaving refreshed.
The icing on the cake was that my Lyft driver Jawid was only 2 minutes away...: )
A Facebook friend responded to the selfie I posted and asked, "Did you sing with her?"
The fact that I'm typing from here, and not from a hospital bed, where I would be recuperating because I bumped my head on several tables and the floor as I fainted from the opportunity, means no.
I just smiled and clapped from my seat, and felt my own disposition shift.
Would I jump at the opportunity to even sing "Jingle Bells" with the incomparable Lisa Fischer someday? Absolutely!
There. I said it. It's at the top of my bucket list.
It's such a treat, and a necessity however, to just to listen sometimes; to be a sponge; to be inspired and encouraged; to marvel at and appreciate what the human voice is capable of when it is nurtured well, and free from the restraints and criticism and comparisons often imposed.
Ms. Fischer in concert is a masterclass in singing-- and the happiness of it.
It is a testament of the gift that is song.
It just makes me glad that, in this computerized, superficial world where some people apparently care more about how music looks than how it sounds, some gifted, unbound individuals are still skillfully, and humbly demonstrating what comes naturally. They're simply communicating, "I just want to/like to/love to sing".
It almost seemed like an insult to call it a concert.
It was an experience.
I googled the definition of "concert".
The word refers to an "agreement in design or plan"; " a union formed by mutual communication of opinion and views".
Yep.
That's what transpired at DC's historic Blues Alley.
A union.
There was no lip synching; no stems, or tracks; nothing attempting to deceive or distract the audience.
What everyone paid for was what they got--and more.
Everyone was on one accord; performers and audience.
It was healing, and a nice way to remember one of the people who introduced me to music--my Dad.
I think a part of my new normal is to treat myself to experiences like that more often.
#musichelps
#musicheals
#lisafischer
