Like No One Is Watching

For as long as I can remember music has always been a big part of my family’s life. Looking back I don’t recall anyone in my house watching more than an hour or so of TV at a time. But there was always music playing. Whether it was mom’s ‘Best of Chicago’ cd or one of dad’s many records, my house was filled with songs.

My mom was tone deaf but that didn’t stop her from tapping her feet along off beat and even on a  rare occasion singing along to a Kenny Loggins song. By the time I was ready to enter kindergarten, I was well versed in the protest songs of Woodie Gutherie and Pete Seeger thanks to my dad’s undying love of folk music. Although my sister dabbled in listening to The New Kids on the Block, Billy Joel was her first musical love. My earliest memory involves me standing on my dad’s feet twirling around the house to Edison Lighthouse’s ‘Love grows’.

To this day, whenever Don Mclean’s ‘American Pie’ comes on the stereo I find myself clutching my heart when the singer meets the girl who sang the blues.  Even though decades have passed, there are songs that continue to stop me in my tracks no matter where I am. My parents introduced my sister and I to a wide range of musicians over the years, and in turn we added a few new artists to their repertoire.

I truly believe that my dad’s world changed forever the day I brought home a mixtape of The Barenaked ladies that a classmate had made for me. He has definitely reveled in my personal discovery of The Beatles—even if it happened 20 years after he would have liked it to.  While we’ve all gotten older and our music collections have changed, music is still a huge part of our lives.

My parents shared their love of music with my sister and I from day one. They encouraged us to sing loud and to dance like no one was watching.  Although I know that these acts were not necessarily intended to be life lessons, my parents’ enthusiasm for the songs they loved taught me the importance of getting lost in the moment.

And by getting lost, I have found joy. I have danced in the rain, I have sang at the top of my lungs while running down the streets of New York City, and I have recited entire soundtracks to anyone who’d listen. I honestly can’t count how many times I've been caught at a stoplight pumping my fist in the air to a righteous beat.  I've also lost track of how many concerts I've attended with my father, but I can tell you that the number will keep going up.

Tonight Long Island as well as many surrounding areas were hit by some pretty intense thunderstorms. While many of my friends and colleagues took to Twitter and Facebook to complain about the weather, I unplugged my computer and put away the cell phone. I took out my IPod  and cranked up the tunes. As the thunder roared outside, so did the dance party in my living room.

In the midst of a stressful week, I let my anxiety wash away with the rain. I turned on The Rolling Stones’ ‘Ruby Tuesday’ and danced my cares away.  I twirled around the coffee table and thought about all the times my dad played air guitar to Gordon Lightfoot songs when we were kids. I clapped my hands in the air—slightly off beat—as I remembered my mother’s attempts to teach us how to dance to The Bee Gees.  I put the song on repeat and sang at the top of my lungs for good measure; and when it was all over, I felt happy.

Thanks mom and dad for teaching me to love life.