I Was There with Me When

Last night, my voice soared through that microphone and that room that The Stones used in the 70s (but I don’t think anything made the record). All the day before, I practiced singing notes higher than I’d sang in a long time, attempting to embody the soft sadness of lost friendship and the quiet ease of choosing yourself. Even in the moral support of a warm shower, I barely squeaked them out. But in that room, where everyone present believed in me—even me, to my surprise, believed in me—my voice soared. I sang the words of this gut-wrenching song for the millionth and the first time, not with the emotions of a-year’s-worth-of-unanswered-texts but with the anger and pain that accompanied their silence. I felt reacquainted with the parts of me that wanted to be loud. I stood, stupefied, breathing into each next note, lighter as they left my chest.

This morning, I spent an hour slow-motioning through a local bookstore. It had been so long. Old books filled the new add-on and the nostalgia of the smell put water in my eyes. A tiny kitten beside the front desk eked out what had to have been only the twentieth meow of its life. I allowed myself elation. How many hands have held these books nestled in bed or sitting in coffee shops or warmed by the sun on a breezy afternoon? I leaned in close to examine names of poets on my tip-toes and they started glowing like actual magic. Really, it was the sun spilling through the skylight, no less magical. I felt like it wanted to be a part of my elation. I cannot not feel like it wanted to be a part of it. Like it wants to be a part of it all.

This afternoon, I walked into my favorite coffee shop with my dimples showing for the first time since Before. Part of me feels like conversations I’ve had here during writer’s circle or the day I met my friend Jordan who ended up co-writing and producing my music or the first time I opened The Prophet in the window seat or the time Jen leaned over to ask “Are you Haley?” or the first time I opened a box of CDs with my face on it— part of me feels like it’s all still here. Part of me feels like everything started here or ended here or ended up here. Regardless, I always ended up here. And when I opened my computer to type this, it started raining. Genius loci.

This week, a voice in my headphones asked me to ask the universe for a sign. It was the end of a 15 minute morning meditation on Youtube where you were supposed to emerge with an awareness of the newness of your life, having selected a new potential from the field. And why not? I’ll be new again tomorrow. I’ll be there with me then.