James Taylor tickets went on sale Friday.  I hope you got yours.  I’ve seen him in concert many times over the decades, and his voice just doesn’t seem to age. And his new music is just as poignant as his old.  Just as relevant.  His new record, Before this World, is phenomenal.  Buy it. 

Today’s post, “Dear James”, was originally intended for my book, My Vices Collide, A Celebration of Being a Little Messed Up, due out in the fall, but the copyright issues involved in quoting song lyrics are complex, and royalties are high.  And since there is no story, in this case, without the lyrics, I’ve decided to share it here instead. 

This post may only resonate with die-hard JT fans like me.  (I named my youngest son Taylor James, if that gives you any idea of the depth of my devotion to the man’s music.) Even among the serious devotees, I wonder how many of y’all will get all the references.  I wonder if James Taylor himself would get all the references. They span 45 years.  Wow.  And he’s still making music that “changes my mind,” and my life for the better.  Thanks, James.  “I’ll plant my flag right here.  Today, today, today.”  

See you on April 19^th.  I’ll be in the 4^th row center. I’ll be smiling. 

Sharla

Dear James

This story is for James Taylor.  So if you are not James Taylor, you can skip this chapter and go on to the next chapter, “Six-Pack.”

If you are James Taylor, first of all, let me say, that I too, am very pleased to meet you.  You may not remember, but when you shook my hand, there over the chain-link fence at the Columbia Gorge in 1994, you did tell me you were pleased to meet me.  I think you were sincere.

In fact, you always seem sincere to me; that’s why I’m so fond of you.  Whether you are a steamroller, a death row inmate, a millworker’s daughter, a chili dog, a bartender, a lighthouse, a frozen man, a Red Sox fan, a trucker, a drug dealer, a handyman or a golden retriever puppy dog, I believe you are the real thing.  I have always believed this.  And while I’m not saying it’s a religion or anything—I’m not a lunatic—it has really helped me to believe in you all of these years.

I was twelve when we met, and our relationship has outlasted every single non-familial bond I’ve had in my life.  Why, today, we are even Facebook friends.  I love the videos you post.  Of course, when I was twelve, I only had the music.  Oh, and the album cover.  I worried that the needle on my hi-fi would wear out the record the way my hands were fraying the jacket.  (Those solemn eyes. That chambray shirt.) But, like I said, it lasted.  You lasted.  And here we are, James.

Yes, nearly half a century later, and you are still a daily part of my life.  I could not write a book chronicling the major influences in my life without writing about my 45-year relationship with you.  It has been profound, and not a day goes by that I don’t consider something you have said in a song.  Even messing with the thermostat yesterday, I was determined to cool my room to exactly 68 degrees.  And I’m forever curious about what it is you have to show me in the garden.  (I’ve imagined that it’s a fragrant, fluffy peony, the size of a dinner plate, dusty pink and moonlit.)  Last week, when I was making great progress organizing a story, I heard that gospel choir in my head, In line, in line, it’s all in line, my ducks are all in a row.  I woke up this morning singing, Today, today, today, I’m finally on my way.  Thank you for hanging out with me every day, James.

I wonder how that must feel for you to read all of this—Is it weird?    You mentioned that it is indeed curious when perfect strangers call you by name.  I don’t mean for this to be weird.  But when I made the decision to name my son Taylor James a couple of decades ago, I guess I felt comfortable enough with my commitment to you, to know that we would stand the test of time.  And we have.

But let me make this clear from the get-go.  With the exception of a brief pre-adolescent crush in 1971, I have always kept it platonic.  “You Can Close Your Eyes” is perhaps the most romantic song ever written.  Who could resist such enchantment?  To this day, every sunset I have ever witnessed has the same tender soundtrack.  And I still love you.  I know. I know—as I’ve heard you say in concert—“It helps that you don’t know me.” I get that.  I’m not a stalker or anything, and besides I was twelve and a half.   Anyway, it would be hard to be in love with a man with so many highway songs.

So, for the most part, the relationship I’ve imagined has been more the James I’m wondering, could I borrow your truck? variety.  That’s why you’re here.  You said it yourself.  And you have been a good friend.  A very good friend.  I have borrowed your truck countless times in my life.  I would’ve been stranded on some very lonely roads without you.

I borrowed it when I was seventeen and decided to leave home and move to Costa Rica.  I was moving in silent desperation, and it helped to know that you were too.  I wasn’t alone that summer or any season thereafter. Winter, spring, summer or fall, all I had to do was call, or listen.  I borrowed it when I first saw my husband-to-be.  There really was something in the way he moved or looked my way or called my name.  You helped me to see it, to appreciate it.  Even when, years later, I found I had forgotten how to tend my own fire, Ted was there, reaching down for me saying, Jump up behind me, my love.  Jump up behind me. To this day, he truly is my only one only one. 

I borrowed your truck, James, when I was a new mother so very far from home, overwhelmed and lonely on another gray morning, a not so good morning after all.  When I was so desperately locked up inside.  I borrowed it when I awoke angry or sad and beating myself up for waking angry or sad and finally accepting that sometimes I can’t help it if I don’t feel so good.  Everybody gets the blues.  (Poor puppy.)  And that maybe I could just give myself a break for a change and make today, today.

I borrow your truck in all of my contradictions that you seem to get—Am I a true believer, or a poor wretched unbeliever?  Do I need a strong hit from the money machine, or do I really not care if I got no money (not a dime)?   Is love just a word I’ve heard when things are being said, or is it really the only road. I don’t know any of those answers, don’t understand the why or when, but you’ve assured me that even in the middle of the sadness, the everyday madness, the ongoing game—even when I can’t find a reason, still there is a reason, I don’t need to name it. 

I’ve learned that simply looking up from my life, as terrifying as it was to finally acknowledge how far down I had plunged—Lord, it was deep, and the sides were pretty steep—that I wasn’t the first to find myself knocking ‘round the zoo.  It was even a Thursday.  Seems I had forgotten how to be conscious comfortably, and finally, even sleep could not free me.  I thought nothing could.  I was wrong; you were right.  Could you really understand the girl that the monkey could leave behind?  And if you could, could others?  Would there be grace for me? Was there, then, hope for me?  You had been there, done that.  You told me all about it. But it was so long ago for you.  Still, I suspect, that’s one mess o’ misery, you never forget.  There were many angels, James, watching over me.  You were one of them.  You never stopped singing for me.  And I agree, James, there’s only one way to surrender.  I get that now.

Thank you, James, for telling me your stories.  They have changed me in ways great and small for most of my life.  I will be borrowing your truck till I die.  Even now, right this moment, as I’m feeling acutely overwhelmed and distraught over things I cannot control, I hear the soundtrack—Those horns, strings, voices…Seems I was born with too many choices.  What am I gonna do with all these extra things?  As they serve to confuse me. Really.  Those are my favorite lyrics, by the way.  Ah, but you have inspired so many favorites of mine:

• Favorite colors: Deep greens and blues
• Favorite animal: Gorilla (he’s got hands on his feet!)
• Favorite food: T-bone steak a-la-cartey
• Favorite ambient temperature: 68 degrees
• Favorite greeting: Boy howdy, howdy damn do!
• Favorite month: May
• Favorite dance: The cha-cha-cha
• Favorite highway song/mantra: It’s enough to be on my way.

What relief, what joy, to finally know that, yes, it’s enough to be on my way. It’s enough to cover ground.  It’s enough to be moving on.  And when I pray, James, I too forget what to ask for.  There isn’t anything I haven’t been given.  Never mind Armageddon and Waterloo. Never mind the zoo or the hole or the clock with no hands.  I have this moment in the sun.  And it matters. I’ll plant my flag right here.

“We’re all just walking each other home,” Ram Das said.   You’ve been walking me home, James, for most of my life now. You’ve been there through it all with me.  Every milestone.  Every crisis.  Every celebration.  We go on harmonizing a song.  There’s always a song, James, always a song.  You’ve been there, ready to lend me your truck—or maybe your comb.

And I’ve learned, from you, what a good and lovely and even holy thing it can be to let the music change my mind.  I have been comforted, inspired and encouraged countless times in my life by your voice, James, your strings, you words.  I have also been made kinder by them.  More humane.

In February, the music changed my mind, just in time maybe, or more likely (sadly), better late than never.  But I saw it in her eyes, James, I did.  I hadn’t wanted to see it.  None of us did.  But there it was.  In her small dark eyes, the eyes almost of a child it seemed—earnest—though now rheumy with age and dementia and weariness.  There it was, that clock with no hands.  It had been there for years.

Is it odd that your death row inmate, the one that the State of Alabama incarcerated for murder, and my mom, locked up by depression and madness, should plead for the same thing?  Set me free. Sleep come free me.  Please, please, please, set me free. 

Mom opened her eyes for a moment, that winter afternoon.  She had been mostly sleeping for a decade, maybe longer.  Who knows where the depression left off, and the dementia took over?  It was impossible to tell, and Mom, never one to complain, retreated into her head and her bed.  We could not rouse her. I even wrote her a song begging her to wake up—You can’t just fade away like this. Can’t you hear your babies cry? We love you still, Mom, we always will.  We can be your reasons why. 

But we couldn’t.  And those last months spent pressing a spoon to her lips, watching carefully, reminding her to swallow.  The months of waking her up to have her diaper changed.  Of turning away from her because I could not watch.  I should not watch.  The months of strumming music that she seemed not to hear.  Whispering stories that no longer resonated.  Ah, those months.

I wanted her to wake up.  To look at me.  To tell me something witty, just one more time.  We all did.  We all wanted something from her.  One more thing from Mom.  Isn’t that just the way with kids?  We tried everything to rouse her back to life, back to us.  But to be awake was torment for her.  It had been for so very long.  If language had not abandoned her, she would have said it too, “Sharshee, It breaks my heart to awaken.”

So, I let her sleep.  Those final weeks, I decided.  I put away the spoon, and the straw that I had been using to drop water into her mouth, baby bird style.  I brought my guitar, my journal, a pillow from home.

I was with her when she fell asleep for the last time a few months ago; my strong body curled around her frail one.  My lips whispering into her soft white hair, “Go to sleep, Mom.  It’s okay.  I understand.  You can go now.  You never have to face the heartbreak of awakening in this world again.  I understand Mom, I do.”

And she went.  And she’s gone.

And I’m okay, just drifting through time and space on the face of this little blue ball falling around the sun.  For a while longer.  How much longer?  No-one knows.

But I do know the Secret O’ Life, James.  You confided in me, didn’t you?  Such a secret—so simple.  And yet for one who was lost and found, just like me and you, so challenging.

Still, if any fool can do it, surely this one can.

Thanks James, that’s all I really mean to say.  Thanks.  I am forever in your debt, sir.  With love.  All the love that not knowing you allows.  This is the epitome of unrequited, I suppose.  But I’m okay with that.

This is a good love.  One of the best loves of my life.  Time and time again, Love has brought me around through the music, and I see so clearly, how I’m gonna pay that debt I owe.   You’re reading it.  And with every word, every paragraph, every chapter, I can feel it beginning to ease.

Thanks, James.

Now about that truck…