For the love of the band

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This ride of being my children’s mother never stops blowing my mind. It was never my job to teach them only to show up and witness what they had in store for me.

Standing on the floor of the Hollywood Palladium squished on all sides by people I had never met, my neighbo’rs beer pouring down my leg, my left foot stuck to something on the floor, my nasal passage assaulted by other people’s body odor, sweat in all the places, I was farther outside of my comfort zone than I would ever choose for myself. My mind looked for exit routes. I could flee and find a better place, with less people and meet up with him once the show was over. I could suggest, gently that maybe we had seen enough and step away to the fresh air of the outside world. Somewhere in me though I heard this tiny voice reminding me “this worry is not his” and “this fear is not his” mostly, “this discomfort is not his.” I focussed my attention on what was truthfully in front of me. My son. Fully present to the moment, experiencing a dream come true. Yes, he would bend in the way that indicates the fatigue of standing on a concrete floor for hours but only for a second before he was swept up in the music again, bouncing off the floor, singing out the lyrics.

Pausing to get comfortable with my own discomfort brought me clear into the moment. Yes, all my senses were alive standing at full attention. There was music literally pulsing through my entire body. The band just started playing their new title “Still Breathing” and I felt as though it was the first time I had really heard the lyrics. I was doing just that I was still breathing through the wreckage of my own fears, I was standing their still breathing and it was a small miracle. Tears stung my eyes as the lyrics carried on. Without pause the music moved into the song “Minority” upending any sense of control I had been holding onto. With snot and tears joining the sweat pouring out of me,  my mind  saw it all in a flash. The four year old him in his one piece blue pajamas with a badminton jacket in his hands singing this very song everywhere he went. My brother arriving with a bass in hand on his fifth birthday because being Mike Dirnt was the most important thing for my son that year. The bands that were formed over and over again to showcase his talents. His first attempts at making music on his own. His now skill at listening to and recreating all the songs the band put out. Each moment that had lead up until now to make this a possibility. I knew then, that it will always be the depths of my gratitude at being his mother that will carry me through the places that threaten to break me.

 

 

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