It's been a long time

Last I went to see Stevie Nicks in concert, wonderfully opened by Chris Isaak. Earlier in the week, I decided to drive out there on my own and take the boy to an early dinner since his school is so close to the concert pavilion, which is way out of town. The plan was for me to get to the concert when the gates opened, rent our lawn chairs and secure a prime spot on the hill for the evening. My friends took a limousine and met me there an hour or so later. It worked perfectly because if there's ever a place you do not mind being alone, it has to be on a hill at a rock concert. The people watching is second to none, entertainment of the finest sort that TicketMaster has not yet been able to incorporate into the price they gouge you pay.

When my friends arrived, we were all kinds of excited to be with each other and sitting on the hill on a Saturday night in June. Cold beer, good friends, outdoor venue. Nice night. For two of us, this show was our seventh Stevie Nicks and/or Fleetwood Mac concert together, for others our sixth, our third. For one of us, the first. For me, I was at all of them and then some.

Early on in the evening I ran into a friend who was with some other friends, a couple of which had second row seats. Before I could stop her, she arranged for a swap-out mid-concert. She'd come get me, give me the ticket and I'd go sit that close to Stevie Nicks. I was excited to say the least but not sure it could be pulled off. Until later in the night, that is, when I had a ticket thrust in my hand and was walking down the hill and through the aisles and showing my ticket to countless attendants. Suddenly there I was.

And a funny thing happened to me at that moment. I wasn't excited anymore. I wanted to be back on the hill, back with my friends. Being up close was an opportunity I thought I wanted and I did want, until I got there. Once there, it was an isolating experience; it was just a seat. When I heard the initial notes of Landslide, my heart sank. One friend in particular always gives me a big hug when that song is played in concert, always holds my hand and sings with me. And in doing so, it's like our friendship rests on a hammock, swining lazy and supportive. I like that feeling, and I missed it.

After that song, I thanked the two girls (who I did not know) and said I was going back to the hill. They graciously said I could have the seat for the rest of the night and though I explained to them that I'd rather be on the hill, they thought I was just being considerate and so we went round and round in a polite No-please-do-stay, Oh-no-I-just-couldn't sort of exchange. Until I left.

And when I got back on the hill again, there were my friends, chatting, singing and dancing. I sat on the grass and took my rightful place among them. And I felt good, and at home.

After the show, as I drove the long drive south in the quiet of my car, the almost-full moon hung wide and yellow in the dark night sky. I smiled at that glow, and had an unfamiliar feeling inside. Something was missing. I realized there weren't any storms in my head and heart. What I felt was peace. With my life, with the night. With my father, my mother, my sister, my family. With the past and the future. It's been a very long time since I've had that absence of turmoil, since I've felt a sense of everything being okay in my life. It won't last forever but at least it was there, is still there. As I drove on beneath that moon, I realized that the important thing to me is not where I sit, but who I'm sitting with. It can make all the difference in the world.