Day One

One year ago today I wrote a Love, February post on my phone at a concert.

The crowd buzzed and jostled around me. People were bouncing excitedly on the balls of their feet, talking, singing, taking selfies. Every twitch of the red velvet curtain brought a held breath that maybe this was the moment.

I was at the back of the crowd, scrolling on my phone, wracking my fried brain for what to write for my first post. Then I realized that I was surrounded by something I love. The words came quickly and freely, I typed rapidly on my phone, praying that the wi-fi was strong enough to post before the curtain went up. I posted a few minutes before the lights dimmed, the music started, and for a few short hours I let myself disappear into that crowd.

What a concept now.

The idea of being in a crowd, crushed together with strangers, sweaty, dancing and singing with no second thoughts.

I am an introvert. But concerts are (were?) different. They energize me. I love all sorts of live music – classical, rock, rap, jazz, traditional folk – you name it, I have probably seen it and loved it.

Something about that crowd, that shared love of an artist and music, energizes me.

I love the venues – from big stadiums with elaborate setups, and the old historical theaters with their beautiful facades, to the dingy, dark basements and backrooms of pubs with sticky floors.

I love the feeling of standing among a crowd of strangers and all singing along to a song we all know and love. Or swaying to a familiar movement. Or tapping your feet to a well-worn memory of a tune.

I love those moments between the opening set and the main set when the crowd is buzzing. That buzz is a music of its own, a crescendo which peaks when we erupt in cheers as the curtains draw back.

I love that that moment when the lights dim, and the artist finally takes the stage. We all hold our breath, wondering what they will open with.

I love how the music seems new again. It’s like trying on a well-loved jacket with a new lining – there’s something familiar about it, but it’s also new and remade just for you.

I love that moment after the end of the show, just before the encore, where half the crowd wonders whether to stay. That break which is just long enough to let some people leave and to let those who stayed catch their breath.

I love that second wind that comes when the artist returns to the stage. It’s as if they too can’t bear to say goodbye.

I love the crush of the crowd as we leave. The buzz has returned, but it’s different now, charged anew.

The funny thing is, I often drag my feet before going to a concert, making a hundred excuses in my head: I’m tired, it’s been a long week, people annoy me, I hate waiting in lines. But once I’m there, it all changes. None of that matters. It’s all swept away.

Today my mother got her first shot. I don’t know when I will get mine. But somehow, this doesn’t really matter to me anymore. I know that, despite all the frustrations of the last year, one day we will back to some kind of normal. There’s a light at the end of this tunnel.

I know that it’s OK to be angry and frustrated and that depression and anxiety are all part of this too. Some days I wish I cared less so I could be reckless. But I can’t be. It’s not worth it. So instead, for now, I wait, just like those moments before the curtain opens and those first notes ring out.

Love,
February