Yesterday was a big day for me. I did my taxes and was surprised to find out that a fat refund will be coming my way. Two hours later I was unwrapping my new MacBook Pro. There’s something about building this website that feels important, like it’s the fruition of a long-time struggle. I feel free these days, which is funny considering I’m working long hours at my job and I’m also getting married in a few weeks. I don’t know. I also noticed yesterday that the gray in my beard has spread far and wide in a matter of months. I said to Mary Alice this afternoon: “I wonder why I couldn’t do the things I’m doing now — recording songs, building websites, enjoying my job, living in the moment — five or ten years ago, when I longed for nothing but this kind of inner freedom?”
Freedom. It’s all pretty weird. I used to have recurring dreams about my van (a 1971 VW Bus named Bessy) being damaged or destroyed or threatened in some way. I came to realize that Bessy was a symbol of freedom for me. A home on wheels always waiting for the day I would finally let go of everything and just hit the open road. Ironically, Bessy is on her last legs, and I’m preparing to do the unthinkable — sell her to the highest bidder. I’m letting go of my old symbol of freedom. And somehow I’m coming to understand my upcoming marriage in terms of freedom — which is the opposite of how most guys figure it, I know. My whole life I’ve yearned for one thing, above all else, and it has been for the thing I now share with Mary Alice. I’ve often heard that the only thing worse than not getting what you want is getting what you want. Nothing is turning out the way I expected, and somehow I’m more than okay with that. Interesting. The day I met Mary Alice, the guys and I had a party (at the legendary Music House). I never felt better in my entire life. I had just been graced with a satori of sorts, a major epiphany or peak experience I described as “The Freedom.” I was wide open, and who should wander in but my future wife. Interesting.
It was years ago when my friends and I went to the Cat’s Cradle to see a Led Zeppelin tribute band. We walked home with PBR in our veins and fire in our hearts and the words “Head the gong” in our heads and on our tongues. Eric and I tore the kitchen apart that night, smashing apples and tearing down blinds. But I hesitated a bit. I held back, just a little. I wanted to go to bed when we got home. It was Eric who pulled me in. Since then I’ve clearly and painfully understood what it means to head the gong, and I’ve tied myself in knots trying to live up to that promise. It’s only now, all these years later that I’m starting to feel free in my bones.