May 7, 2015

Any time I am going to be away from home on a business trip or a guys trip golfing or fishing, there is usually the excitement of the trip; excitement for the unknown adventure.  Along with the anticipation are the physical possessions for each venture, those items beyond the luggage appropriate for the trip.  Driving or flying, there are specific accoutrements for each.  When driving; an old school green, metal thermos and a travel coffee mug, protein bars, the Rand McNally (despite the advent of the GPS on the phone), and possibly the occasional cigar.  When flying, after checking my luggage, there is my briefcase with laptop, iPad, earbuds and possibly a real tactile book.

Regardless of which mode of travel, and beyond the specific staples for each, there is music.  My music.  Maybe not the music you’d like. Maybe (and probably), not currently hip.  My music nonetheless.  Some of the artists you heard of, some you haven’t.  Beyond the bloated list of my stations on Pandora, I also have music on my iPhone.  Astaire, Ella, Nat King Cole, Sinatra, Coltrane, Steve Goodman, Marshall Crenshaw, Randy Newman, Elvis Costello, Charlie Parker, The Smithereens, Treasa Levasseur, Tony Bennett, Dave Brubeck.  See, some you have heard of; some you haven’t.  Certainly, some you’d like, some you wouldn’t.

Lately, and for the last few weeks, my companion has been Imelda May.  Ms. May’s music is the right fit for what speaks to my soul.  In the end, that is how the language of music works.  It is that right combination that unlocks our emotions.  With Imelda, it is rockabilly, tinged with jazz, blues, and a hair bit of punk for flavor.  Her tunes are mostly hard driving, rhythmic and energetic, with fun and poignant and sneakily insightful lyrics.  Except for covers of Tainted Love and Dreaming, the music is her and her band’s own.  There is a subtle and not so subtle smoldering passion of the music and the words.  For me, the way life ought to be lived, with passion.

I am often asked whether I am done with all the travel.  Isn’t it a drag?  Isn’t it more trouble than it is worth?  My reply is I love the chance to see so many different places.  Experience so many different things.  And I enjoy what I am doing with my career at this juncture.

When on the road for that career, sometimes solo trips and other times with comrades, and despite my enjoyment, there eventually does come the missing of home.  Missing your mate.  Missing your children.  Missing the moments of home.  The “double edged sword-ness” of it all.  Because despite that longing, I am drawn to the road.  Drawn to seeing new places and meeting new people.  Drawn to engaging.

This doesn’t mean I don’t wake in the middle of the night missing the bed at home, and the partner sleeping in that bed so many miles away.  For some of my comrades, it is the breakfast with kids.  That is not my era; but my era does include missing my soon to be in college son.  We can also miss the moments of mundane frustration that is part of home.  Even the pedestrian slices of time can be missed.  The big and small ups and downs; the entire grab bag that is our home lives.

The cell phone and/or the FaceTime does shorten the miles.  Sometimes, though, even those tech crutches amplify the wall when we don’t seem to quite emotionally connect.  The phone call when one participant is eager to talk, and yet the other is distant, lost in the turmoil and activities at that end.  It can be either end, but there are just times when we don’t connect with the one we long to be with.

On the road, there is laughter and evenings full of stories and teasing with our travel companions.  Despite the fun, we often do feel we are missing the life at home.  The phone calls with kids of any age, excited to share a new adventure.  Disappointed because the tooth fairy might not know what to do.  Or there is the child with the sadness of unlit shadows, real or imagined, nonetheless scary and stark.

A call from a daughter going through a breakup, or later with the same daughter, the excitement of planning for the wedding with the”one.”   The text from a son wanting to talk about grad school options, or wondering what life means.  The thrill of sharing the walk-off home run call with the son who loves baseball.

There are the other trials of home, though.  We see our parents’ aging, waiting for news of some sort of test.  They need handholding and care too, and we quietly realize there is a changing of the guard when we become our parents’ caregivers.

On the travel end of the phone line, sadness can creep in when we unable to fully share the excitement, unable to cuddle the sadness and scariness away.  And after a few days of highs and lows, there inevitably comes just the weariness of longing.

With this backdrop, the words and music of the May song, “Meet You at the Moon” means something special. This is a departure from hard driving music, and is a thoughtful ballad.  It shares the simple and beautiful notion that wherever we are and whomever we are missing, we can share the same moment of looking up together at the same celestial entity; the moon, a star, the sky.  We can have, for a slice of time, a brief sense of belonging together.  And even in those times when we aren’t connecting, we can have that wonderful sense together.  It can be two mates aching for closeness,  parents and children who miss sharing the day, or even friends simply longing to share the events of life.  We can see the same moon or star, and realize we are bound together for that moment.

Meet You at the Moon

By Imelda May

We’re lookin’ at the same moon

Though we’re miles apart

We’re wishin’ on the same star

When you’re deep in my heart

I don’t know if you know

But when we miss each other so

Look up

I’ll meet you at the moon

_____

We’re starin’ at the same sky

Strangers it seems

We’re sitti’n on the same earth

Though there’s oceans between

I don’t know if you know

But when we miss each other so

Look up

I’ll meet you at the moon

_____

Mmm I’m part of you

And you’re part of me

But it’s a cold old world

When your missin’ somebody

Without you

I wouldn’t couldn’t be

So when your heart is achin’

And it can’t take much more breaking

______

We’re lookin at the same moon

‘Though we’re miles apart

We’re wishin’ on the same stars

When your deep in my heart

I don’t know if you know

But when we miss each other so

Look up

I’ll meet you at the moon

Recently, while driving home from Georgia on a fine spring night which turned into morning, a crescent moon arced along the driver’s side of the car. Near dusk starting low and large, and by the time I arrived at home, it was almost gone.  This same moon could be seen by my mate as she warmed under our down comforter. This same moon could be seen by my son at home, and my other children living their adult lives farther away.  Like tides raised and lowered by the lunar orb, we are pulled together by the same celestial body.  And when no cratered moon rock is in the sky, we can still be pulled together by songs and memories.  In that moment, the longing weariness of the road is salved, if only briefly.  Home only truly salves that aching.