-A reflection (now 31)
I started watching Julie & Julia, and the moment the cobb salad lunch date scene appeared, one of the characters said: “our generation, turning thirty.” I realized I’m in that boat.
On my way home from work, I contemplated my life. My love life, my career, my place I now call home. When in fact I did everything that I wanted to do when I wanted to do it, not what someone wanted me to do. I should be proud of that.
I’ve realized my heroes: Paul Simon, Mario Puzo, Dr. Matthew Walker, Anthony Bourdain, Samantha Brown, Alexa Chung, Camille Cherriere, Ricky Gervias, Julia Louise-Dreyfus, Salvador Sobral, Redbone, and my Indigenous tour guide who now lives in Rome, Italia, among many others.
There are days where I missed being who I was. The person who would leave at 3 or 4 a.m. for a show five or so hours away, have a meeting with a radio station (still don’t know how that happened), hang out with my tour friends after a night at the legendary Ryman auditorium, just to drive back in the middle of the night to make it back to my job at a bank, with only two to three hours of sleep. Or buying a plane ticket based on an email that confirmed a one-time meeting (with the person where I was going to be the Colonel to their Elvis). Or message a person I’d met two or three times on a tour a year or so back, to ask if I could sleep on their couch in the Pacific Northwest. To my friends, this was a normal story. To strangers, it probably sounds like a tall tale.
Before twenty-seven I worked for (what I thought at the time) was the greatest band to come out of Australia, started a business with complete stranger in Nashville, met three of my music idols, was asked if I was interested in being a director of production for an orchestra, recommended as a replacement for the executive director for a different orchestra, bought a damn house, got a dog, and got married during a global pandemic.
Yet, I feel like I’ve done nothing but bullshit my way to where I am. I’m going back to school in hopes of making new networks in a city where I have essentially lost myself. I’ve become a recluse. Learning that at the end of the day I just want a margarita, cabernet sauvignon, or a smoky old fashioned when the day was really kickin’ my ass.
“But this year (2024), what feels like the halfway point of my life, (especially with the amount of french fries I consume on a weekly basis), I wanted to be myself again. To visit my tour buddies, hang out with friends more, and act like I can’t rub two pennies I found walking down the sidewalk but could always afford an adventure.”
So I started acting like it. I told people I was in town. Reached out when I saw they were nearby. Looked for new places to hike. Started reading things I needed to read in the moment. No more of this scrolling instagram reels bullshit.
I became honest with one of my best friends, when I was asked about when my mom died, (and really whenever five other people died at the same time). Twenty-twenty-three was not kind to me. But it toughened me up to who I was years ago.
I applied to grad school, and got in. I told them my “new” dream of running the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame one day because of what I’ve been through in the music industry in the genres of folk, classical, drum corps, and Christian rock. I told them I’m Indigenous, but don’t know the first thing about my culture because I wasn’t raised on the reservation, (because I was adopted). I told them I was ready to step up my game, because I had nothing to lose and just paid off my student loans.
I stopped inhaling music as if my life depended on it. And stopped scribbling lyrics whenever my mind wandered. I stopped studying what good music was supposed to feel like, and just kept myself grounded in stomp and holler while doing the dishes, or and punk when prepping the mis en place for dinner.
Shit just doesn’t happen for a reason. It happens because you show up and push for something else, or for something more.
Over and out.
Living Noteworthy 