There are certain genres of music that flow through the rhythms of my life. When I was in the throes of coming to the decision to divorce, yet again, Sarah McLachan spoke to my pain and confusion. The year of writing my book it was all instrumentals that lulled my mind and allowed me to drift on dreams at night. Piano solos were prevalent though Yo-Yo Ma came along at the end and gave my creativity an energy drink.
Today, my last birthday in this first 50 years of life, I have found a kindred spirit in Zoë Keating. A Canadian cellist who’s haunting echoes are the soundtrack to my awake life – and the last thing I hear as I drift off. What is it with Canadian women musicians and me?
I cooked myself a decadent bluefish dinner. It was reminiscent of days of living in Boston and thinking Legal Seafoods was slumming on the restaurant scene. Doused in Mayo, Dijon mustard and fennel seeds it was broiled to perfection. Accompanied by frozen green beans tossed with Persian Lime olive oil and lemon sea salt; the meal was probably not that bad for me. And when did I ever stress over what I eat?
Alice is on my left foot, scratching at imaginary summer itches. Dahlie is sprawled on the dog bed and the cats are hovering. Life is good.