Dreams: New Year’s Revolutions…




I had a dream last week that I was singing at a coffee house. I have readers and WordPress friends who are real honest-to-goodness musicians, so to them, this dream would be no more than a yawn. But to me–I love music but am Woefully Unmusical–it felt like learning to swim. Freedom, accomplishment. A new form of mobility.

In my dream, it was Open Mike Night and somehow someone Forced me onstage. (Even in my dreamworld, it is well known that there was no way I would go voluntarily.) So I sang a song that I wrote Years and Years and Eons ago. Yes, I used to write songs–lyrics–like I write poetry now; I think in poetry sometimes and I used to think in songs. Since I am so woefully unmusical and unable to write the music that I imagined, I used to sing my songs into a tape recorder (Yes I was a mere child, you are deducing correctly).

Up on that dream stage, I sang one of my ancient tunes, a cappella.

Since in dreams anything can and does happen, it may not surprise you that the audience members Loved my little tune. There was a moment of silence (they were stunned, as was I) and then they rose to their feet in adulation with raucous applause.

Then I awoke.


It would have been nice to dream of my continued rise to fame and my stardom, but instead I awoke thinking: I should get a guitar. I should learn to play the guitar. Huh? Where did that come from? I didn’t even have a guitar in my dream. I can only think that on some level I knew just how off-key atrocious I must have sounded, particularly without any accompaniment.

But it does sound fun to write lyrics, like poetry, and to write music in my mind again.

How much stead do you put in dreams? Ever follow any?

Just wondering. Lala la la.

~ Lily


Life is what happens…




Sunday Song…chasing those blues (*updated).


This was written by George Harrison, but it is done so well by Davy Knowles. He’s a young blues guitarist from The Isle of Man and he’s toured in the U.S. with guitarists such as Jeff Beck and Joe Satriani.

Sometimes I blast this song when I need to rock my blues away. “Hear Me, Lord.”

It’s a prayer, a contrition, an entreaty. “Help me Lord, please, to rise above this dealing…”

Music is another language with its own beauty and meaning that is difficult to translate. You just have to listen, and feel.

I love when the music says what words cannot, or continues from where the lyrics leave off.

I love when music understands me, even when I do not understand myself.

Phenomenal guitar playing, here. If you are familiar with Rory Gallagher (*my favorite is I Fall Apart, another song that I play over and over. Listen to the guitar solos!), early Knopfler/Dire Straits, or the Clapton of acoustic Layla, you may appreciate Davy Knowles.

Thank you to George Harrison, Davy Knowles, and all of you who visit here. Oh and– to Peter Frampton, who produced Davy’s album. I missed the Frampton frenzy when he was singing, but I know him now as a darn good producer and have listened to some of his music because of that.

Peace, joy, and harmony,

~ Lily



Afterwards. (a poem)


I met him

at the bus stop.


is the one who taught me

that no one could take my spirit

unless I relinquished it.

He is the one who knew

that poetry could be simple:

several words in a mailbox,

“brown into blue”

and that spooning was all I needed

if that was all I could do.

He called me baby

because he loved me

though tiny spoonfuls of life

were all I could take

at the time.



Note: No vows were made in the making of this poem.


Walk This Way…


Do you do this, or is it just me?

Oftentimes when I walk, I find myself walking to the rhythm of a song or music. I don’t plan it, music just pops into my head.  The songs or music reflect my mood, similar to how some of you put a song in your post that goes along with the topic du jour.

Sometimes one line plays over and over in my head, one appropriate line. Like, Steady As She Goes for instance. I must have needed steadying, that day. Or maybe I was proud to be feeling steady, who knows.

Today, post breakup, walking out there on my own, I found myself humming as I walked down the street, not even knowing what song. Da da da daaaa daa…  and then eventually a line of lyrics came, and I very happily walked along to them:



Yes, I had to laugh,  Don’t Make Me Over.  That first line says it well: I just want to be accepted as I am, just as we all do. Even with all of the skeletons in the closet, I think I am OK.  Sensitivities and quirks and all.

I can’t erase anything, can’t re-write or re-do, but I’m not dead yet and I have a lot of life left to live. It pains me more to read of other people’s heartaches and horrendous lives than of my own, and you know, I think it is because we have to live with our own tragedies and so one way or another such things became our stories, incorporated into our lives, for better or worse. It was the only life we had. We got through, and here we are.

All around me I see good kind people who have been through life’s battles, and I see that they have not only survived but are people of compassion, sensitivity, and strength. This isn’t the bequest of tragedy, but the gift of resilience of our beautiful souls to persist after tragedy, to crawl or stand up and maybe even eventually dance, however we manage it.

I felt shame for a long while. Maybe in some ways I still carry a little of that. There are some things I never talk about, some things I keep close. This is in part because I appear so “normal” (at least in real life) and it makes me happy that I am that way, not a simpering victim. I remember when I was a little girl and adults would whisper sometimes–oh poor little girl. Or, worse, when a boyfriend’s hoity mother thought my family background was too questionable: how would an engagement announcement read? So, you know, under-the-radar sometimes seemed easier.

Now I don’t wear anything on my sleeve, at least not outside of cyberspace. Yes, here there is some venting, I suppose. But, I think I have become more at ease with all of the pieces of my life. I have held them together at some times better than at others.  Yes, I think about the past and carry around some lessons, some longings, some pain. When I look back, it is often with amazement, and tenderness: How did I take that? How did I cope? How did I survive? The same way we all do, however we muddle through, rise above, carry on, or just–as I usually did–put one foot in front of the other.

Looking back makes me grateful for all that I have now. Reflection makes me appreciate how far I have come and who I am.

Going forward into the unknown is scary, but thrilling, and sometimes I laugh to myself that the reason I live so simply is because I already have so much baggage. But hey– don’t make me over. Accept me as I am, a person with a past who has a future.

If you have any good walking songs, please forward to me.