It was only a dream...

Tonight, though, my love took my heart in hand, and squeezed until I could not breathe. I was pulled back home, gasping and in awe. Reminded of my place...and humbled by its beauty.

Each time, I ask myself how it could have gotten this far. Why did I leave? What is it that pulls me away? How can I live a day without that connection, that bone-jarring intensity that makes me feel so alive?

And then I remember what, how, and why. My heart breaks.

There was a time, years ago, that I would answer the question, "What do you do?" with a simple sentence.

I am a musician.

There is no feeling on earth like being cradled in the arms of the sound, the passion, and the strength of music. It is the thread that connects my fabric. It is the warmth that fuels my being.
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The Civic Opera House is one of the most beautiful venues in Chicago...tucked just south of the bend in Wacker Drive, right on the river, in the heart of my city. About an hour before the show, we walked past the side doors on our way to grab a drink at a little open-air place across the street. It was warm, and the sun was still shining.

There, huddled against the door, was a thin man in faded jeans and a blue hoodie. He was furtively smoking a cigarette, glancing up from time to time before shrinking back into the corner. My friend veered away a bit, as you do with crazy people in doorways.

I stopped.

I looked at him as he raised his eyes, and I smiled. He looked briefly panicked, shuffled his feet, and threw the butt into the street. He then opened the door and scuttled in before I had a chance to say a word. It was Damien Rice, having a smoke before the show.

He looked so small.

About 8:15, five people took the stage. Damien sat at the piano, and began to play. Have you ever really stopped to listen to someone melt into their instrument? It becomes a part of them, an extension of self. His introduction was not a list of thank-yous or welcomes. It was a lament, a soulful sadness of the heart...a bittersweet tale that led into 9 Crimes.

He played without a break for two hours. He laid himself open on that stage, with the vulnerability and trust of a man who loves his art. He told us his story, which swallowed the entire world for that brief time.

From unrequited yearning for a girl with beautiful eyes to the admission, "What I really need is what makes me bleed," it was magical. I never wanted to leave. I was home.
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I know why I walked away. I understand the need to live this life I've chosen. If I hadn't left, I would have been slowly eaten alive by this agony that comes with separation. I am not strong enough, and I can not live on the razor's edge without experiencing the blood. I can not make that transition between rapture and reality every day. It was killing me, as sure as it was how I lived.

But sometimes I wonder what that short, vivid life would have been like. I feel the hum in my bones, and the crush in my chest, and I wish, for a few moments, that I had stayed.

I would give almost anything, at this moment, for another day there.

But love forgives. And as long as there are men like Damien Rice, who can walk out onto that stage and share their passion, it will be okay.

I'll be back from time to time. Don't forget the breeze.