Piano Man and Unicorns

Piano Man and Unicorns

A former newspaper columnist, I host this much neglected blog. But in light of depressing news (Syria) and my own bad health (falling apart at the seams), I indulged in a little word gathering in an attempt to feel good about SOMETHING. 

To all my artist friends out there, you are a gift to me. I count you among my greatest, most treasured blessings. Keep painting, drawing, writing, singing, playing...you are divine.

Saturday I woke up early. This is no small feat for a night owl of my caliber. Never do I rise before my husband who keeps an internal alarm set somewhere around dawn-thirty. My eyes opened and my brain, unusually functional for a pre-coffee state, immediately noted that we needed milk.

I dressed, hopped in the car and headed to the store. The sun peered from billowing cloud sculpture, the trees swayed in breeze uncharacteristic for August in South Mississippi. Dare I say it felt like fall?

We seldom speak openly of autumn here for fear of frightening it away or offending the sun gods. But the cool air and the morning sun lifted my spirits. I turned the radio up a little louder than usual.

An unexpected joy settled in, a smile that turned the corners of a surly scowl. There was that accepting look at myself in the rearview mirror that has nothing to do with the unkempt bed head or the impression of bed sheets on puffy cheeks. It’s an awakening, of sorts, that we get sometimes, that there remains much to be happy about in spite of the rotten old world.

I felt magic in the air and fully expected a unicorn to cross my path. Just a whisper of autumn is all it takes for this gal. To see the thermometer register anything lower than 74 has me dreaming of hot toddies on the back deck, wrapping up in blankets and walking outside without breaking a sweat. It is definitely magic.

The music on the radio, a song by Pink, challenged “you gotta get up and try.” Considering my previous week of struggling with a complete lack of energy and enthusiasm, the message struck a chord. And then for no reason at all, I thought of the song “Piano Man.”

I love the lyrics about a vocalist in a bar at a piano singing the stories of his hard luck audience, from a man “making love to his tonic and gin” to pounding carnival chords from the keyboard. I picture a young Billy Joel writing that song and I wonder just what inspired him to tell that story? At what moment did he recognize the significance of composing his song?

Now, I share this story for only one reason. I am clearly crazy, which I think you have to be—at least a little— to do things like write stories and share them for anyone’s eyes but your own. But what happened next made me understand on some intrinsically cellular level that God or Billy Joel or maybe the unicorns at large needed me to hear something.

Do you know those moments, when you feel so connected to something or someone beyond yourself that you cast a suspicious glance over your shoulder? Am I on Candid Camera? Is there a secret webcam in here? Am I dreaming?

That very instant, “Piano Man” sailed from the speakers on my car stereo. I mean, as soon as Pink finished her call to perseverance, Billy Joel serenaded me all the way to Dollar General. I’m not sure exactly why, but I cried. I felt instantaneously connected with something so good, like suddenly reuniting with the very best friend I ever, ever had. But why?

Because timing is everything, people. 

Some would say it's Jesus, some would say Buddha’s calling, some would say a screw is loose and it’s all just a stupid coincidence.  But I allowed myself to have that moment of clarity. I considered that song played for a reason, when it could have so easily been one of countless others. It wasn’t just any song. It was the one that led me back to writing something good for my soul. It made me revisit my own purpose in writing and how I love to spend time with words. 

The Piano Man sang me a memory, and after a long absence from writing,  I hope that you’re feeling all right.