"I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to." - B. Dylan

An open space this morning. A day off. I'm not going anywhere, except maybe later to get an iced latte, just to feed the monkey. I put three cds in the player and the music washes over me and I realize my picks have great meaning.

Mahalia Jackson, one of my Grandmother's favorites, singing Gospel, a stirring soulful sound, reminds me of my Grandmother's powerful faith, her smiles and laughter. She was a great, beautiful woman, all soul, forged in a life of loss and heartache, which she never showed except for a quiet and humble grace.

Bob Dylan - am I the only person in the world who was introduced to Dylan by my mom? She was the one who purchased Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits and brought it into the house. I was the one who put the "pschedelic hair" poster on the wall of my room. Dylan's great and beautiful lyrics (I think this is what attracted my mom) delivered by this harsh, edgy, midwestern voice (the jangly edginess attracted me). Mom ended up playing Rachmaninoff much more often, while I played Dylan over and over until his voice became as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.

Ray Charles - I think I saw him first on TV - Carson, or Dean Martin, or Laugh-In, or Ed Sullivan. A blind, black dude, swaying side to side on his piano bench, he could not contain his energy, his joy, his soulful fire. Amazing, inspiring, he could sing and play any song and make it his own.

These three are playing now. I'm listening, thinking this time is my own, by mixing these three powerful and great voices, I fill up my own life with a joyful noise. What a strange, beautiful alchemy. What a strange, beautiful life.