It’s funny, the more you befriend yourself, the more you begin to recognize the various “selves” of you. For instance, I can tell when life is becoming overwhelming or bland, as I begin retreating to my hideaways of memoir, like living fluently in Florence, Italy, or picking up new words in Swahili, back on safari. Hiking through the Blue Ridge mountains.
And suddenly I’m feeling nostalgic for the “me” who loved listening to French music while wandering old apartments, who felt opportunity mixed with young adult rebellion in her glass of red. I studied French for seven years and then lived abroad in Italy. Go figure.
Music does something transformative to us, physiologically and emotionally. We time travel to familiar melodies and reminisce as our synapses are flooded with do-overs or do-agains. I love this description from Kat’s blog about the vanity of our decisions through time: “When you’re young, the irresistible thing about about being grown up is the freedom to do whatever you want. When you’re grown up, the irresistible thing about being young is the impermanence of your decisions.” And music only intensifies this.
At times, the former “me” could be soothed with countless iterations of Amelie and Yann Tiersen and crooning Charles Aznavour. And now I’ve found someone new to amuse myself with. Coeur de Pirate. Lovely.