Notes from the Becoming: Wide Funnel, Tight Filter
On contraction, courage, and choosing to stay wild.
Every June for 10 days, there is a celebration of summer with a carnival, rodeo, parade, and big-time country concerts at Nebraskaland Days in North Platte, Nebraska. Throughout my childhood, this event was the backdrop to my summers, and I often attended the concerts with family and friends.
My first concert at Nebraskaland Days was The Oak Ridge Boys, sometime in the late 80’s. While I was too young to decide to attend the concert, let alone pay for it, I was no stranger to the music of The Oak Ridge Boys. With songs like “Elivra,” “American Made,” or “Y’All Come Back Saloon,” I had all the lyrics memorized and sang along at the top of my lungs. The deep bass voice of Richard Sterban would make my young heart flutter with joy. Aging myself here, I listened to them on vinyl, 8-track tapes, and cassettes.
The details of that first concert are a bit fuzzy in my memory. Other than being outside at the fairgrounds, the family I was with, and feeling the reverberation of the band in my bones, I have no idea whether we were standing or if I could actually see them or the stage. There were no jumbotrons back then if your view was limited. But I do remember that that was the moment I discovered the unfettered happiness of live music. I’ve attended several concerts since that first one, and each time with an air of excitement of seeing a current favorite at a volume that may render me hard of hearing later in life.
Music is the soundtrack of my life. Breakups, heartbreak, anticipation, hope… Certain songs evoke certain memories and tug at the heartstrings in both happy and sad ways. Name an event in my life, and I could give you the song to match it. The one I played on repeat to get me through or be my anthem. I absolutely love music, but I don’t attend many concerts these days. You know…life.
Recently, I found myself at the House of Blues in Dallas, with my 16-year-old niece chaperoning her to a concert of her favorite artist, the up and coming Chris Grey. In one of the smaller stage rooms at the venue, painted with deep red walls, ornate brass chandeliers, a smoke machine, and hard concrete floors, it was standing only. The bar was in the back, devoid of patrons, given that most of the crowd were minors. The biggest seller from the bar was Liquid Death (canned water).
When my partner and I finally made our way into the venue (my niece went early for the meet and greet), we headed to the back of the crowd already congregating around the stage. The room was filling quickly, and in a short amount of time, young people packed in around us, and my circle of personal space dwindled to almost nothing. The acrid smell of body odor, bad breath, as well as every scent popular with the teen crowd, could be smelled. The air was pungent and humid with bodies. A horrifying and odd thought, it brought to mind how the Jewish people must have felt being packed into train cars headed for camps. Right? A totally morbid thought for a concert, and didn’t encourage thoughts of a joyful experience.
We stood this way for an hour. Sometime within those sixty minutes, a young man who was probably 6’ and weighed 120 pounds stepped in front of us with his equally lanky, but much shorter girlfriend. There was absolutely no room left, so I assumed they were making their way through the crowd to find an opening. I was wrong. They stopped and stayed. So close that my partner’s face was literally touching the mid-back of this young man. Way too close by anyone’s standards. We had to put on the parent hat, talk about etiquette, and ask them to move elsewhere, another mom next to us championing us on.
I was annoyed. As I looked around the room, I was judging everything. The scene, the smell, the less than stellar excitement about being out way past my bedtime to attend a concert of someone I have never even heard of, and loosely comparing the experience to Nazi Germany! I caught myself in rumination and chuckled at how old I’d become. There was a time when my niece’s excitement was palatable to me. How small I’ve made my world.
As I stood there reflecting on this thought, I saw my life spreading out in two ways. In one direction, my life looks expansive: wiser, educated, experienced, and less apt to worry about what other people think. In the other direction, however, I see contraction: less adventures, less risk, and sticking to the safety of my small circle. My life closing in on me.
And I didn’t like the feeling. For someone who has been a concert goer since her tween years, vying for a spot at the front of the crowd, I was appalled by who I had become in that moment. My life was the opposite of wild. It was very, very tame.
Did I enjoy the concert? I can’t say that I did, but the time with my niece, who was beside herself with joy, and realizing that I need to blow the lid off my safety zone was freeing, and for that I am grateful. I still love live music, and that night it became very clear how I like to enjoy it.
In that moment, I chose to breathe, reset, and make a mental list of what does make me feel wild. My world is not going to be small. Instead, I’m choosing to have a wide funnel, tight filter. The perfect tool for both a wiser and wild life.
Love,
Abby