7.6.05 somerville, ma.

We are a family of loners the Viens clan, Ruby, Wayne, and I. Each of us loves humanity deeply, craves the stimulation of others, and loves to love; snuggle, kiss, share, connect. But if the wells of our internal resources are not replenished, the edgy beast in each of us emerges ferociously; snapping and biting, and sometimes cruel. It’s yet another paradox, in the pantheon of paradoxes that embody being a sentient animal, that we need and love others so much, and yet must face, own, and stand tall in our aloneness if we are to be healthy and productive human beings. When I gave birth to Ruby I saw it so clearly: I must surrender to her dependence on me, commit to nurturing her, give her everything, in order to build in her the skills she would need to be not a part of me, but to be whole in herself. I prayed that I was up to the task.

When Ruby was little those first years were about meeting her every need, keeping her close, safe, fed, warm, dry, and loved beyond measure. Current poet laureate Ted Kooser said of his childhood: “my mother shone on me like the sun”, and that is what Wayne and I wanted to do more than we wanted to do anything else in the world. Ruby was our miracle child! She was a gift that came from the universe after 6 years of trying to have a baby. I couldn’t do music while she was small, couldn’t really get lost in my internal consciousness deep enough to tap the wellsprings of my own creativity. I skirted along the surface, doing musical theater, working with people in the studio, and doing one-off projects like Alice Cooper vs. Jethro Tull and Led Zeppelin II with the BRO. But as Ruby grew, I could feel something burning and percolating within, an undeniable force: the need to be “back out” in the larger world as an artist again, to separate from family and track down my fellow outlaws. I began to hone and shape words and melodies into songs for the first time in years. I had thought I might stop doing music when I became a mother, especially because I had to have a fulltime job but I knew in my heart I couldn’t stop. Starting a band meant being gone nights, performing live meant being gone even more, and I didn’t know how I was going to do it. Somehow I would have to find the strength to leave this little person, not just occasionally, but again, and again, and again. The wrenching was unbearable. When Ruby cried “mama don’t go” I would stare into Wayne’s eyes above her heaving, teary, clinging little body, mouthing “help me! Help…me!” Out the door I would push, guitar slung over one shoulder, slamming the car door shut, sitting, head down, hands on the steering wheel, breathing deeply, releasing the guilt and the pain of many conflicted impulses. Then, popping a cassette into the tape deck, motor running, gunning it, head back, I was free, truly free inside and out. The exhilaration! The joy! It could be 1810 and I, the baddest gunslinger in the world heading out into the high plains. Alone. Alone at last with a job to do. Rock and roll can make you feel that way.

The idea of the solitary journey is ancient. Since the beginning of time we have walked it, and walked it alone. We meet a lot of beautiful and strange people and creatures along the way, and all are our teachers. We align ourselves with comrades, soul mates, children, families, and we are born into and make and find our tribes, but no one can make us get up each morning and face the day. Our work is our own and not a single other soul can make us do it. Yet we come together over and over again for sustenance and inspiration, for reminders of what is real, important, and profound. We make love, and we share meals, and we talk and we work side by side to make daily life rich and smooth and less burdensome. We mirror each other in our conversations, helping each other to “process” the infinite array of emotions and thoughts that accompany the sometimes horrific, mostly beautiful often-stunning moments that make up a life. There is an Irish saying: “the most beautiful music of all is the music of what happens”. Maybe all of art is our version of the “music of what happens” or the “music” of what we envision could happen.

Ruby is almost 7 years old now. Recently she asked me, very defiantly, with her hands on her hips: “MOM, do you HAVE to be in a band or do you WANT to be in a band?” Ahhhh, tough question my dear. I wish I knew the answer to what drives us inexorably from within. I have to believe and hope that the passion Ruby witnesses in her Dad and me for the creative life might inspire her to find her own passions and to dedicating herself to fulfilling them, whatever they may be. As it is now, her “imaginary life” is in full on, gorgeous display. She can play and read and draw by herself for hours, and clearly needs her time alone. But still, she struggles to find that balance between solitude and the comfort of others that we all grapple with. How much should we need, expect of others? How to learn to need less, and yet never shut the door? How much energy to give, and how much energy to preserve, in order to do the tasks at hand?

A couple of nights ago, I had snuggled her to sleep and the house was quiet and cozy. Wayne was out and I was “alone” in the house! The evening stretched ahead of me, seemingly endless. I was excited to listen to a recording of a live Bad Saints show from the night before. I could get lost in my thoughts, do a little writing, go inside on that inward “journey” towards the making or understanding of something new and full of promise. I got stoned and put the cd in my computer and lay down in the dark on the spare bed with the headphones on. The music was loud, and in my head I was gone, reliving the performance, examining notes, phrasings, remembering the reaction of the audience, hearing cool things about each band mates performance that never register live because of the “job” of “delivering” the songs. Lost in my own world, blissed out, probably singing out loud obliviously I was terrified to feel someone’s breath upon my face. I screamed and sat up. Ruby sat on the edge of the bed, startled by my reaction. “I just wanted to be with you mama,” she said, almost in tears. “Of course sweetie!” I said, “Let’s get you comfy”. Ruby lay back with her head on the pillows and I covered her with an old comforter. I lay back down in the opposite direction, our bodies stretched out next to each other’s. I put the headphones back on. Her little hand found mine, but just our fingertips were touching. I carried on listening but the moment for constructive creative observation had passed. Soon we were both fast asleep, blanketed in soft darkness, side by side, dreaming our solitary, collective, dreams.

Head high, face the wind

Linda