ConseCrate

Reflections on Shuffle-Play

Seasons of Love

Rent Soundtrack

I knew this song long before my mother died, but now all I think of when I hear it is her. The winter she died, as the days grew shorter and colder, I ran at night and cried my eyes out.

“In truths that she learned,
or in times that he cried?
In bridges he burned,
or the way that she died?”

I’ve written so many times about how my mom was like sunlight to me. I’m sure this is a story I will continue to write as long as I exist. There was no place as warm or as light as being with her. I hope I can be as good a friend to my children as my mother was to me. Sitting at her kitchen table, talking for hours about everything and nothing, laughing, eating, being. The good thing is that I knew how much she meant to me and treasured her while I had her. The bad thing is that it’s been nearly six years since she died. Think of all the cups of coffee, the drives in the country, the moments big and small we could have been sharing in those six years. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her.

She would say I need to focus on my own children now – and I do. Life is good and happy. But sometimes it is so good to write about her, because when I write about her, I weep – and I remember all that I lost when I lost her. Not that I forget – I still think of her all the time – but I don’t cry about her hardly at all any more, except when I write about her. The words pour out and my heart pours out and the tears pour out.

In all our pictures, she looks the same, but now my reflection in the mirror looks older than any photographs I have with her. What would she think about her gray-haired daughter? What would she think of her long-haired grandson? I know exactly – she would smile and love us. She would laugh and live in her grace-filled way.

It’s the little things, the little heart-breaking things…how whenever I would come home late, if she woke up she would come downstairs just to visit with me a little bit. Or how when she would go to bed but dad would still be awake, I would go upstairs to talk with her. No matter how tired she was, she had time for me. I miss her.

But now my sons come to visit with me. They come in the sunroom when I am writing or watching TV and we talk. They come in my room if I have gone to lie down and they tell me about this and that. I hope they feel the same kind of unconditional, grace-filled love and light with me that I knew with my mother. If so, then this life is such a great success.

How lucky I was, how thankful I am, I had her.

Seasons of Love

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
Five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear.
five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
How do you measure,
Measure a year?

In daylights?
In sunsets?
In midnights?
In cups of coffee?
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife?

In five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
How do you measure a year in a life?

How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love…
Seasons of love…
Seasons of love…

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
Five hundred twenty five thousand journeys to plan.
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.
How do you measure a life of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned,
or in times that he cried?
In bridges he burned,
or the way that she died?

It’s time now to sing out,
though the story never ends.
Let’s celebrate remember a year in a life
of friends

Remember the love…
(Oh, you’ve got to you’ve got to remember the love)
Remember the love…
(You know the love is a gift from up above)
Remember the love…
(Share love, give love, spray love, measure your life in love.)
Seasons of love…
Seasons of love…