"So take my hand in your hand, and say it's great to be alive."

I think I have realized that whenever I feel bummed out and can't really pinpoint what is wrong, I should just have a good cry. (That, or clean. It is pretty sick and twisted how great cleaning makes me feel.)

My day started out pretty good today: the carpet measuring lady came over and measured for the new carpet installation (and new carpet excites me a lot), I ran a couple of errands (always pleased to get shit done), and got some much needed caffeine in my blood stream (thanks, Starbucks!).

Yet, I could not shake this sadness/anxiety that has been lingering in my brain. I know I miss my family a lot right now, since my Dad moved back to Utah. And, when I am not in school (like right now for summer break) I feel a little idle and it makes me uncomfortable. Plus, that and the newness of a new job is always an adjustment.

This morning I downloaded the entire Elton John discography. Elton John sort of has a special place in my soul. I remember being little and taking day trips with my family when we lived in Washington, back when the parents were still married, and sitting in the backseat staring out the window daydreaming. My hair was always in these little pigtails that my mom always pulled too tight into the rubber bands, and since I was a little kid my feet didn't touch the floor. The only thing that was played on the cassette deck in our car was either "talking" (which I called the tapes of interviews that my dad listened to) that for some reason made me car sick, or Elton John.

What I used to call "the good old days" was that time period. Taking trips to Portland, Oregon and visiting Powell's Books where we would always park by that old boxing gym, the one that always made me scared as we walked back to our car because it always ended up being dark outside. The gargoyle-esque statues on that building made me hold my moms hand a little bit tighter. In the other hand I would hold my new book, anxiously waiting to turn its crisp, new-book pages.

This afternoon when I came home from running my errands when the downloading finished, I randomely selected Michelle's Song from his album called Friends from 1971. This song has no real significance, even though I recall hearing it several times before. When I heard "So take my hand in your hand, and say it's great to be alive," I started bawling. Those who know me know that I am a crier, but, Elton John has never made me cry. Except for when I was little and was tired of hearing the Two Low For Zero album, and thought that crying would make my dad stop playing it.

For some reason, that lyric brought back a flood of memories. Getting home from our day trips, late in the night as always, my mom would carry me in to the house when I fell asleep, and also when I faked sleeping. I don't know why I faked being asleep, but I would keep my eyes shut even as she changed me into my pajamas. Feeling so secure in your parents arms, I don't think anything can ever replace that feeling.

Today I thought about those "good old times" and then my thoughts were led to several years later. After experiencing "the bad years" which I used to refer to as my late elementary and junior high years, I went through what I called "my year of hell" that took place two years ago. I remembered sitting in a restaurant with my dad in the depth of the depression I was in. Feeling ugly in my skin, no money in my wallet, no light at the end of the tunnel. This restaurant was a place we had eaten hundreds of times, a mongolian restaurant we always seemed to end up during the time of my parents divorce. A time when he was feeling a horrible sadness, and I would always assure him he was a good parent and not to worry. And then here he was with me, trying to make me feel like there was some sort of element of my life to be happy about.

What is significant about this conversation is something he said to me that I haven't forgotten since. He got a proud parent look on his face, and started telling me about when I was a baby and how "everyone loved you," he said.

"You were like this little gift-wrapped box from heaven."

Certain things people say to you, so sincere and heartfelt, are things that you don't forget. When I feel scared about the unknown or question my abilities, I can think of the past and how I am still the same person I was when I was little. Full of desire, adventure, and an eagerness to learn and conquer the world. As babies, we feel comfort in touch and the look we receive from people who hold us; a sort of validation that we matter. What felt like annoying car trips with loud music, I now truly value, and I am grateful to even just have some songs to bring those memories back.