Concrete Musings

Yesterday, I attended the lesbian mega concert known as Lilith Fair at the Shoreline Amphitheater about forty minutes outside of San Francisco. We were seated in the general admission section, on the lawn behind the expensive seats. After hours of build up, the music finally started, and of course, from our seats the stage looked like an elaborate ant farm. Most people were lounging and talking, and some were texting on their cell phones, others were taking pictures. A few proud couples were dancing, they were sticking up like blades of grass missed by the lawn mower.

One such blade was a slightly overweight middle-aged man with a pot belly and long straight stringy hair. He had round John Lenin glasses on with blue lenses, cut off shorts, and a yellow t-shirt like tank top that hung down loosely to his upper thigh. He was dancing like no one was watching. He swung his arms back and forth like a pendulum, and along with the beat bent his knees and raised his fists like he was playing drums above his head. Someone, I’m not sure who, started dancing behind him, following his every move.  Soon, there were a dozen people dancing along with the man in the yellow shirt in synchronistic pleasure. The crowd grew, and the entire lawn sat and watched in amazement as the Man in the Yellow Shirt lead a group of 50 or so lesbians into unbridled, smiling joy. Kids were picked up on shoulders, and people started to forget to watch the Man in the Yellow Shirt for cues and spontaneously  started their own organic dances. Some people tried to take the spot light. They stood in front of the entire crowd and created ridiculous movements on the spot. They would self-consciously look over their shoulders to see if others were moving with them, but to no avail.  The Man in the Yellow shirt continued to be the leader. Everyone on the lawn forgot about the stage and watched the spontaneous happening.

The Man in the Yellow Shirt, throughout the ordeal, kept dancing like no one was watching. Eventually the band played a slow song, the crowd dispersed, and the concert fell back into normalcy. But the Man in the Yellow Shirt continued to dance. It didn’t matter to him if he had two hundred followers or if he was dancing alone. He was still dancing when I left more than four hours later.

I would like this blog to exist in that same vein. I would like to write with the same integrity and honesty with which the Man in the Yellow Shirt danced. In my own journey, fueled by the desire to live a deep and meaningful existence, I experience the most unexplainable things. Sometimes they are magnificent and other times they are ridiculous. And of course, there is struggle and sweat. The Man in the Yellow Shirt was not always pretty. But he was honest in that moment, and that is what I am striving for.