It may no longer politically correct to acknowledge publicly that there are certain songs from the 70s and 80s that I hang on to, and with each passing decade in my life mean more to me than ever before, but I am willing to take that chance. Many will cringe at the name of Michael Bolton, preferring to say that it is far better to announce that Michael Buble is the one crooning to me in the evenings. But I suppose there are certain songs that we just can’t let go of from our youth, no matter what everyone else says. At the end of the day the opinion of others doesn’t really matter, should not matter, because if I like the song, music, piece, it is my choice. I am done with other people telling me what I can or can’t like, what I should or shouldn’t say, how I should photograph or not, how I should or shouldn’t look.
September and October tend to be very bad months for me, times when I incur great personal losses, and this year was no exception. Sadly, I have to add November to this year, with the passing of my dearest Champagne two weeks ago. All the months of therapy seemed to go down the drain, as I spiralled into a psycho-emotional darkness, having the rug being pulled from under me. So when Michael Bolton’s song rang out on my playlist, the lyrics spoke to me. Click HERE for the full song if you had trouble with the video.
I pride myself in being a strong woman, a frog who can wallow through the mud and tread through the swampy waters, swallowing one unpleasant fly or the other what may come my way. There are, however, certain leaps that even a frog can’t take gracefully and lands clumsily, face down in the mud. A huge error in judgement, and since going against the core of my being is not in my nature, I need to sit in the mud for a while and figure out how the hell to get out of this mess again.
Silent long weekends have been very good for the soul, leaning heavily on my faith, and my writing. Blogging is an emotional crutch, yes, but something that keeps me from falling into the abyss. I would love nothing more than to escape to a mountain and stay in a cave for months on end, but I need the security of my own four walls, music, and my two scruffy cats.
If I may borrow some Harry Potter analogy and reveal my inner witch, I consider myself to be a Professor McGonagall of sorts, surrounded by a precious squad of Hermiones, Rons, Harrys, and even Prof. Flitwick. I am a master of transfiguration (hissy cat or resilient frog I can do perfectly, bouncy tiger and roaring lion I am still working on), with the ability to lead my House, spot a good seeker, and defend all those in Gryfindor House with my life. But it is Hagrid whom I thank for standing by me, ready to rumble, and understanding the plight of the apples!
Although it may be completely undignified of Prof. McGonagall to listen to Michael Bolton, she will be back on her feet again, ready to take charge and re-build.