I was driving in the rain today on the way to see a group of people that I spend New Year’s Eve with. It’s – well. It’s sort of like having a girls’ night, or it used to be, and then it turned out that a solid percentage of us weren’t girls. Looking back, this kind of makes all the sense in the world.

It’s a safe space. It was a nice night. We shared junk food and soda and laughter and each of us took the rice purity test and made fun of each other for how high or low our scores were. We caught up.

But anyway.

I was driving out to Ari’s house and I was about thirty minutes earlier than I should’ve been so I drove around the block a couple of times so that I wasn’t showing up ridiculously early

and I was listening to music and driving in the rain

And there’s this amazing album that was cobbled together by Neil Gaiman and Amanda Palmer, a handful of years ago.

These two happen to be two of my favorite human beings in the world. They’re a bit married. They recorded this show together and he read his short stories and poetry and she played her songs and it was a silly and sweet and spooky and powerful thing.

And then Amanda played this song…

as I was driving in the rain

And it got me in the way that sometimes only a song can, when it sneaks up on me when I’m least expecting it.

And something clicked.

I might’ve cried at that feeling a week ago. But this time I didn’t. I didn’t cry.

But my intuition shifted. I could almost hear it creaking and groaning as it settled into something that made more sense that anything in the world.

It was like that moment when you solve a tricky puzzle that’s felt uncomfortably unsolvable for too long. Then there was the embarrassed moment of “why didn’t I see this before, it’s been right in front of my face” and then there were heaps of other questions

But just for a moment, my head and my heart felt clear, and lighter, and just an odd mix of hopeful and sad.

I’m not sure if I’m ready to write about the details of that moment in this space. Not right now. But sometime, when it’s a little easier to articulate. Someday.

I have listened to the whole album about twice now. Neil’s stories and Amanda’s songs. Her melodies, his words.

That’s the thing about art, about stories. That moment when you see something that reminds you of yourself, in somebody else’s work and time and vulnerability and selfhood. Or when you witness the selfhood of somebody else, woven into a song or a poem or a story, and basically just think that it’s beautiful. And it makes you want to grow.

I’m thankful for all of the circumstances that came together for that moment, driving to a friend’s house in the rain and listening to Amanda and to Neil

I’m just feeling thankful for the shift. The push. I needed that. I hope this will make sense in the morning.

In the meanwhile, I really need to sleep.