At 8:20 am, I entered Beast Mode. Headphones in, music up, I blitzed our house in clean-up mode. Stashes of kid art, stockpiles of pencils, mountains of recipes, avalanches of things-to-be-krazy-glued — it was all swept up in a foot-stomping, house-storming assault, making up for all the nights we said “we’ll do this later.”
While I cleaned, I turned on an album I hadn’t heard in a long time — earlier in the morning, a forgotten melody line appeared in my mind and I was reminded of it — so I pressed play, and dove in. Later is now.
As I chucked boxes and carted goods to and fro, the over-the-top production of this long-lost music was activating all of my emotional centres. The familiar notes and nostalgic noise were like steam from homemade soup under my nose, bringing tears to my eyes as it soared and swirled.
One part of the song led to an improvised extended interlude featuring a women’s choir, where She is surrounded by uncountable melody and dissonance and percussion and sound, and the voices sing: “We’re going to the house of God, are you coming?”
I had an image in my mind of a cacophonous, jubilant procession. It was led by women, unafraid. It was streamers and brass and loudness and possibility. It was sweeping up all of us, nobody forgotten, not a single soul left alone or on the sidelines. An absurd, decadent, citizen-powered parade.
All this to say, I pictured a future with nobody left out. And it made me cry.