Carry on

I took myself out on a date Saturday night.

Here comes a big parenthesis, which you should feel free to skip. I’ll never know. (Many years ago, in between a boyfriend and the boyfriend who would become by husband—in other words, I was solo—I was walking past a flower shop on The Ave in Seattle, and I thought gee I wish I had someone to buy me flowers. Poor me. And then I had [what seemed at the time] a revolutionary thought: Why don’t you buy the flowers for yourself? So I did. I loved those flowers but not as much as I loved the feeling of buying those flowers.)

Since I have been solo again, now close to two and a half years, I have bought myself flowers, and Negronis, and occasionally I have taken myself to the movies. But my Saturday night self-date was to a live concert. Who goes to live concerts alone? Not exactly as daunting as solo-hiking the Camino but actually, for me, scarier. I went because someone I am coming to know said the band was incredible and, maybe, because I wanted to show that someone just how cool I was.

 It was a “tribute band.” I don’t understand the idea of tribute bands. My thinking is this: Either you are good enough to play your own music or you shouldn’t be playing in public. And tribute bands playing half-a-century-old music make me sad. I am not a fan of nostalgia. I think it is all too easy to wallow. That said…

 The band was incredible. They played Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young songs. They played the hell out of those songs. They rocked the house. It wasn’t about nostalgia, It was about an explosion of energy, about extraordinary musicianship, about the magic of in-the-moment collaboration. It was about watching eight people in a flow state. And becoming part of that flow state.

 This is such a long way around to saying what I wanted to say in this little essay. Which is this: Standing there in the WOW Hall, swaying, flailing-dancing, eyes closed, in the music—I mean in the music—I heard this lyric from CSN&Y’s “Carry On”:

Rejoice/ Rejoice/ We have no choice/ but to carry on

And I thought HELL YES. (Okay, I  might have thought FUCK YAY.) We must rejoice, especially in the face of all that could cause despair. We have no choice. And “carry on” is not performative. It is prescriptive. It is a command. It means action. There is no nostalgia. This is the future.