Acceptance

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Meg Ryan as Kathleen Kelly in Nora Ephon’s delightful 1998 film, You’ve Got Mail.

People are always telling you that change is a good thing. But all they’re saying is that something you didn’t want to happen at all… has happened.

I find my mind revisiting this quote more often than ever recently. As with many things that the late, great Nora wrote (particularly under the guise of her charming, timidly brave little bookseller character struggling to make sense of her “small life,” Kathleen Kelly), it resonates with me deeply on a personal level, while simultaneously serving as a reminder for something I’d do well to be more conscious of.

There’s been a lot of change in my life of late, and not all of it of the kind I have liked much at all, but it is all equally inescapable, because that is simply how change works. One of my greatest projects this year, in terms of scope and difficulty, has been practicing something more akin to what is often called “radical acceptance,” because really the only surefire way to tackle the heart of anxiety is to surrender as much of the illusion of control as possible. In reality, all I can control in my life — and even then, it’s a pretty tenuous concept of control — is my own reactions to whatever I encounter while living it, both mentally and emotionally. It’s a daily struggle, as is everything else when laboring under anxiety and various other fun little neuroses, but it’s the best anyone can do, including myself. Part of being gentler with myself on the whole includes accepting these things, rather than pretending I’m supposed to, for some inexplicable reason, be stronger or tougher or more capable than anyone else. As my favorite musician once sang, “I will do what I can do.”

Besides, as another great writer, Junot Díaz, once wrote, “I guess it’s true what they say: if you wait long enough everything changes.” When I’m being overly critical of myself, I often like to paint hope as foolish, but the truth is, waiting on changes of a more positive type, perhaps even for things I still dare hope might happen (however unlikely they may be at the moment) — so long as it’s not the only thing I’m doing — is far from the most ridiculous way of spending some of my mental energy. Better that, than concentrating on talking myself out of hope. That makes it far too easy for other negative thoughts to creep in, especially those about myself, and in learning to fend those off better, too, I’m just less inclined to entertain them.

I have a whole little list of reminders saved on my Keep (notes) app on my phone, and I’ve found that taking a moment to re-read it every day has been a rather helpful habit to get into — along with others I’ve been stricter about lately (exercising, standing up straighter, being more consistent about my skin care, watching my breathing patterns, meditating before bed, being more mindful of my anxious thoughts whenever they might start to rear their heads, etc.). They are fairly short, though the full list is about 30 items long. Then again, it does seem to be the simplest things that, in the end, are making change a bit easier to deal with. As ever, one day at a time.

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She walked in through the out door

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© 1985 Time & Life

So, here’s the thing: If you’re a member of my generation (or a bit older, likely anyone born and/or raised in the ’80s), as a favorite blogger of mine put it back when MJ died, you either grew up in a Michael Jackson house, or a Prince house. That might have been true even if not for their (near as anyone can really know, mostly played up for publicity) artistic “rivalry” during that decade. I’ve been a dancer since I was four years old, and that means mine was a Michael Jackson house. It’s his feet and handwriting I’ve got tattooed on me, to try to remember my strength and beauty, to continue looking forward.

But the other thing is: I fucking love Prince, too. I always have.

I run all the social media accounts for my job, and when I saw his name trending on Twitter recently, knowing how brutal this year has been with musicians only four months in, my immediate reaction was, “Oh, HELL NO.” And then everyone calmed down; he’d had to cancel some shows, his plane had made an emergency landing, and he was ill, but he was alive. Thank fucking god, right? I was (and am) still in shock from Bowie. And I think we’re all still trying to brace ourselves for what’s shaping up to be a period in which a monster generation of musicians will be entering a risky age period, and anyone can go at any time. But Prince? 57 is young. I still considered, as I’m sure many did, Bowie young, leaving us for his home planet at 69.

When Michael died at 50, it seemed simultaneously impossible that he could ever die — the same way I imagine a lot of us, myself included, are feeling right now about Prince, collectively reeling — and seemingly incredible that he’d even made it to that age, after everything his own life and the culture that produced him had put him through, every decade of his life. James Baldwin knew, though he didn’t want to know, what would happen to Michael. I can’t recall now, in my shock, whether he ever wrote specifically regarding Prince, too, and if so, whether it was anywhere near as prescient. All I know right now is, when Michael died, Prince said he had loved him.

I can only respect how maddeningly stringent Prince was about the usage of his music, because it was his, too many Black artists have died penniless and out of control of their artistic output, and he had the right to do, frankly, whatever the hell he wanted with it. But I can’t say it doesn’t make me sadder today, knowing it’s going to be tricky for those who need his music now to find it. You won’t find him on Spotify, and if you want to hear him on Pandora, you’ll have to skip through a lot of other artists. I’m pretty sure the only place you can find his music without jumping through some annoying hoops is Tidal. He’s nowhere to be found on YouTube. He was infamously vigilant about taking down anything unauthorized on any platform, but particularly that one. (Hell, my favorite artist of them all, Peter Gabriel, is quite strict about where you can find his catalogue as well, and with good reason; streaming services, across the board, do not treat nor pay their sources well.)

Prince had a phenomenal amount of output. Because of its volume, there is much greatness within it, and also plenty you can pass on. He did baffling things with his self-branding, most notoriously going by a self-styled symbol for a time. He was a monster guitarist, and an all-around underrated musician, not just a great singer and songwriter. (I mean, he produced, arranged, composed and played all 27 instruments on his debut album in ’78. How in the hell.) An unreal, nearly alien amount of talent — like Michael, like Bowie — that I seriously doubt we’ll see again, at least not in my lifetime. Right now I kind of feel like listening to everything, and yet I’m stuck on a song that my own mother isn’t much of a fan of, despite being quite a fan of Prince’s herself, but that I’ve always loved: “Raspberry Beret.” I’ve never been able to explain to her why, exactly, I’ve been such a fan of it for so long — he has so many great tracks, particularly from that period, and I love so many of those, too — but this one just fills me with joy; it makes me dance. There’s something in it for me, lurking under the bass line, moving through the strings… I’ve had it on repeat for the last 20 minutes, and I don’t give a damn.

Turn on the radio. Go digging for the few tracks you might find hidden on DailyMotion, Vimeo, and SoundCloud. Put on your records, your cassettes, your CDs. Go do that thing we so often do when we just need to be out in public with strangers while the music of someone we’ve lost is piping through storefront windows and doors. Driving in to work today, as the news was breaking over the radio — and it feels appropriate that I did actually first hear the news from a DJ on the radio — I was the only car that had his music blasting out the windows, but hopefully as people find out, there will be tons of ’em driving around, all over the city. We’ve only got a handful of albums in stock at my record store, but I know I’ll be playing them all day.