The Magic Of Our Lives

Hi friends.  I’m glad to say that I’m back in the blog world;  happy to be here but a bit nervous!  I thought I would open my blog up to a larger audience.  “Mothers of Musicians” attracted mainy, well….mothers of musicians, and I really wanted to make this mess of my mind available to those who follow the muse or…let’s just say for accuracy, the spirit of the creator in us all.

I live now in Sneads Ferry, North Carolina, three miles from the beach.  It’s always been my dream to live at the beach but lately I find myself wishing instead for green, rolling hills, rich black dirt and hardwood forests with an occasisonal  pine instead of flat, sandy land with scrubby pines and oaks bent into ghostly shapes made by harsh winds.  I have found the ocean to be loud, windy and too big to stand next to everyday.  I want to feel contained, sheltered and hemmed in by gentle hills that can help me keep my thoughts together.   Also, the sun here is not just bright, but a white bright that shows everything exactly the way is.  The kind of light artists love.  But I’m not that kind of artist.  I like the sun to be soft and the edges of my days smoothe to the touch.  I don’t have to see everything so starkly.

On the other hand…I probably just miss my children.  They all live in Nashville, Tennessee, twelve hours away from me…over the mountains and then to where overwhelming heights  mellow out into beautiful hills. My kids live in homes that dot that magical, enchanted land,  acre after acre  divided up by low, stone walls, generations old and painted fences that keep things in their right places.  Things like horses, cows, children and maybe, thoughts?   If the grass is greener, it’s because of Empty Nest Syndrome and Menopause.  (And yes, I capitalized them because they are power forces and deserve respect.)

A few weeks ago my child married in that land of enchantment.  Isaaca Joy Byrd (child number five) married Peter Allen Groenwald at a beautiful, old, historical barn on a lovely farm off of The Natchez Trace.  They were married at sunset by Izzy’s grandfather, PaPaw, and her dad, Bill.  The air was chilly and the sun set faster than we thought it would.  We were all shivery down to the core but the magic of the night was ahead and warmed us at the thought of it.  The barn was decorated with natural things, like cotton stalks we pulled right out of the fields here in  North Carolina.  (Some I must say were pulled by permission and some by the light of the moon.) 

The barn glowed with strung  lights and the tent with candles.  Tall cylinders of glass held sticks with live butterflies in them.  Some tables had chandeliers of cotton hanging from above and cotton bolls peeked out from every flower arrangement and bridal bouquet.  “The touch the feel of cotton, the magic of our lives.”  (That’s true, you know.)   The band stepped up to the stage and it was legendary,  several of its  members straight out of the Country Music Hall of Fame.  The Time Jumpers…and yes, Vince Gill was there to play too. 

We danced in the glow of glass bulbs and candle light.  We toasted the bride and groom with our small fruit jars filled with wine, letting the music and the wine  go straight to our heads, giddy all because of Peter and Isaaca’s love and rosy future…and we were in the midst of history and great music and we all smelled of perfume and believe it or not, fire from the outside bon fire.   And we all knew it was magic.  The magic of our lives.

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4 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. will schmit
    Oct 27, 2011 @ 19:58:47

    When a young frog plays possum he drifts submerged straight up in the water like a toy infantryman stuck in a Prell commercial, head high and arms outstretched. I’m not privy to the purpose, it might be the self defense of absolute stillness, or it might be the exhaustion reflex of misplaced amphibian ambition. I had never seen it before and if my pool hadn’t gone native in my absence, I’d remain ignorant.

    Rescuing the water friendly creature from the water itself was necessary as the pool’s filtration system is saline based, though flipping a two inch frog into the trees with a skim basket might not seem as much a rescue as an aerial abduction to the frog. Yet the plop of his few slimy ounces in the grass meant life was still possible, where as sucking salt through porous frog skin did not. A fish out of water is always bad news for the fish, but for a frog it’s just another day without an office. At any rate I now know why impossible situations are referred to as ‘when pigs,’ and not this fellow or any of his cousins, ‘fly.’

    I doubt the brain waves in his airbourne head had time to register any sense of curiosity before he thumped himself four legged and stunned onto the rain sodden grass. Frogs never struck me as particularly exploratory beings, it seems as if the only reason this one, in particular, went anywhere was to get away from where it had just been. My skimming basket being a prime example.

    There must be a membrane that separates the ponderment of possibility from the recognition of sheer terror, though at first glance it is hard to imagine there’s any room for such a tissue in my squat toed little friend. How far into a free fall would I have to find myself before I abandoned any concern about how interesting my landing might be?

    I think I saw just such a look on the face of the groom at a wedding in the trees I witnessed this weekend. One unsolid part of him was poised between the sky falling and the ground rushing up to meet him and just as he must’ve realized all eyes were upon him, he put out his arm for his bride. But his bowed apart shoes indicated he was steadying himself as much as he was guiding her.

    If somebody wanted to define marriage in terms of hands and feet one couldn’t do much better without a video of the first dance. Maybe that jump start over a broom stick ritual we see in Southern period films is closer to the truth than pelting the beloveds with Uncle Ben’s genetically mutated rice missiles.

    Not being a hunting heron, I couldn’t find the frog in the grass. I did find the legless part of a blue skink in the filter drain. His skin tone resembled some of the trim icing on the wedding cake, but I’d never mention that, just like I’d never refer to what curiosity did to the cat.

    Reply

  2. themuseinme
    Oct 27, 2011 @ 21:32:44

    Thanks for commenting, Steve. I read your blog from Inspire A Fire, “Make A Wish” and thought it was inspiring. No wonder I love birthday celebrations so much! My cousin, Linda Baker, thought I’d be interested in your blog when she heard I was going to write one too. You are quite the writer and have a big imagination. I heard a chord progression the other night as my husband was playing around on the key board. It sounded like the song, “If I Were a Carpenter.” It reminded me of what you had said in your blog, “He was a carpenter’s son, let the wood he carried carry you.” I looked up the lyrics to the song and they blew me away. I always thought they were “goofy.” But this second look, made me see that they were inspired by the Carpenter himself, as a song to the church. One of the lyrics goes like this: “If I worked my hands in wood would you still love me? Answer me babe, say “yes I would. I’ll put you above me.” You might like to check out the rest of the verses. The song finally makes sense to me after this revelation. Once again. Thanks. I still have much to do concerning putting my blog together, but I’ll have to have my computer savvy kids help me in that area.

    Reply

  3. John byrd
    Nov 01, 2011 @ 18:13:38

    I was there for that wonderful evening. It was pure bliss and still is! Here’s to Peter and Isaaca!

    Reply

    • themuseinme
      Nov 01, 2011 @ 18:23:32

      It was bliss, John. A perfect night was had by all. I love the word “bliss.” Especially when you connect it with Izzy and Pete. They makes me think of crazy happiness, utter contentment. Great word! Thanks for reading and sharing. Have a blissful day! Love, love, love you.

      Reply

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