A few nights ago I walked into our living room to find the Giraffe laying on the floor in the dark, listening to music. "Remember when you used to just lay on the floor and be quiet and listen to music?" he asked. I do. "It feels nice," he said. Then he closed his eyes again. He looked remarkably peaceful.
I spend so much of my days "doing" or being preoccupied with what I should be doing, that standing there watching him it started occurring to me that I can't remember the last time I just let go of responsibility and laid on the floor and listened to some music. Music has become an accessory to a busy life: working, commuting, cleaning, socializing, writing. There, with his eyes closed, looking remarkably peaceful, he seemed to be on to something. So I decided to put down my list of things to do and join him. He picked song after song (I threw one in there) and we laid quietly listening for almost an hour. No to-do's, no pressure to get up. Just us, and the floor, and the music.
We played:
wonderful tonight -- eric clapton
shelter from the storm -- bob dylan
big sky country -- chris whitley
crazy mary -- pearl jam
lay lady lay -- bob dylan
solsbury hill -- peter gabriel
that's how strong my love is -- ov wright
And then we said goodnight to our neighborhood of Rainier Beach and went to sleep. It was truly one of the nicest ways to spend an evening at home.
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