A BodyChoir moment

: I did a lot today, and though I feel good I don't want to push it too hard. Anna's coming home late tonight, probably well after midnight (she's been in Indiana since Monday), and I'll want to be functional enough to talk to her when she gets in. Ledia arrives tomorrow ahead of the ceremony/party in honor of her and her new baby on Saturday, and Patti (Anna's sister) will be coming in tomorrow evening, so it'll be a big dayy, and there's a WCAG call too that I want to participate in. So I decided to stay home, take it easy, and heat up the coq au vin left over from the other night. I started up Windows Media Player to put some music on, and played the first thing on the list. BodyChoir came to me! The album I had chosen contained the music Oscar had chosen for the night of June 29, 2005-- the first time he facilitated after I went in to the hospital in 2005. Oscar had sent it to us at St. David's, and Anna had put it on the CD player and we had wept listening to it. I haven't listened to it since then, knowing that it would break me apart if I did; I had just meant to hold it in my memory, content to know that it was there, grateful for the remembered beauty of it there. I put it on tonight without thinking, either that it was Oscar's music or that it was a BodyChoir program and that tonight is a BodyChoir night. And then it hit me: the opening chords of Patti Griffin's "It don't come easy," and I just stood there in the middle of the kitchen floor, amazed by that hauntingly, achingly beautiful song, memories flooding in. So beautiful. There's another one on there that gets to me, too, every time I hear it. It's in French, a male singer with a lovely, soft tenor voice, very simple. I don't understand most of it, can't pick up all the words, but I love it just the same. "Et voila tout ce que je sais faire," it begins-- "And there, that's all I know how to do." Someone started BodyChoir once, a few years back, by reminding us that we don't have to do anything.