The shuffle function on my iPod landed on Ani DiFranco on my drive to work and transported me immediately to the 24-year-old Corinna. This time I watched that Corinna as through glass, like a tourist on a bus ride through some dimension where she still fumbles her way, mostly laughing, through early adulthood. The music runs underneath it, the soundtrack to a time when every day was a test of how big to be in the world. The unexpected rhythms of Ani's music and her way of turning metaphors on their ears were just as surprising as my autonomy.
From my seat on the bus it's all bathed in golden light: those few, halcyon years after abject fear and before responsibility. There was a suspended moment when friendship and cheap beer and free concert tickets were the only currency worth trading. When propriety and sobriety belonged to an inconceivable life (I had no idea then just how familiar they would be come), when any place that contained my passport, address book and toothbrush could reasonably be considered home. From this angle that Corinna looks blithe and unflappable, and while I don't remember her as fearless, she seems utterly secure in the sense that it will all work out.
She was right, of course. It has all worked out, far better than she had any right to expect. Every single thread has woven together in a warm and heavy tapestry of completely blessed life. A life laden with meaning, as though that is a fair trade for youth and buoyancy and adventure. Through the glass, she is in bloom. And the tour bus is confining and crowded, and I know that in some other dimension my life awaits.