When the Songbook Reopens

On firelight, friendship, and remembering parts of ourselves we've shelved

Dear FFF,

Once upon a time, eons and ages ago, I took up the guitar. This was during my divorce years, when I started going to synagogue many Friday nights and Saturday mornings, finding solace in the ancient prayers, Rabbi Ariel Stone’s beautiful Natalie Merchant-esque voice, and J.D. Kleinke’s guitar accompaniment. I’d position myself so I could watch his fingers fluttering up and down the neck, both hands strumming and picking and rhythming, a mesmerizing, soothing one-man band.

I went over to Portland’s iconic Artichoke Music, bought myself a ¾ acoustic Art & Lutherie, signed up for beginner lessons, and learned to bumble through Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door and Redemption Song. Around this time I got to be friends with Laura, a singing, strumming, college art professor who filled some of the lonely, angsty, kids-at-my-ex’s hours with harmony and laughter. We’d play by a crackling fire stoked with wood I’d split, for I’d found chopping wood in my driveway to be excellent therapy, albeit a nuisance for my nosy, complaining across-the-street neighbor.

My 40th bday jam

I neither learned to read music nor master bar chords, but I did develop a solid repertoire of simple songs and wrote a handful of my own. I even dated a few musicians, each delightful and quickly sorted into the friend, not romance folder.

My musical phase petered out as my time filled with Glen, the publication of Joyride, ensuing book tour, the launch of Alta Bicycle Share, and my oops!/bonus third pregnancy.

This past weekend, Laura and I got to dust off the old songbook during a spontaneous Oregon coast getaway. Perfect timing, because Friday morning my lower back seized into agonizing spasms that left me incapable of anything productive or athletic. A psychiatrist might diagnose the cause as ongoing frustration over Cider’s bitchy, unmistakable protest poops (follow the drama here and here.) A sports doctor might point to the 75 minutes of singles the day before, with an opponent who ran me ragged. Whatever the reason, off to the coast we went with ibuprofen, wine, a hot pack, and zero expectations.

With my back coated in BioFreeze, nestled against heat, Laura and I and two other talented, equally rusty ladies hacked our way through Brandi Carlile’s Cannonball, Jason Mraz’s I’m Yours, and Lucinda Williams’ Lake Charles while rain pummeled the sunroom windows. My back would twinge if I moved wrong, but it also seemed to loosen with each chord. For five straight hours, my younger self bubbled to the surface—giggling, light, utterly transported from every worry in my body and soul.

Fabulous female founders, I know this isn’t earth-shattering. But outlets like music are not luxuries, they’re necessary. We have to harmonize our lives across the braided strands of work, family, community, and self. Not balance — harmony. Whether it’s singing, skiing, painting, praying, tennis, or simply staring at the ocean until your nervous system remembers itself, our creative selves require space away from the companies we’re nurturing.

Once upon a time, playing music was part of my story. This weekend reminded me that this version of me still hums beneath the surface, hoping I’ll invite her back in.

“Returning to myself is such a lonely thing to do.
But it’s the only thing to do.” ~ Brandi Carlile

And maybe for you, too: a long-set-aside piece of yourself, humming in the background, ready to rejoin the chorus.

~ Mia