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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