Leveling off. Chapter 1.

I'm in a large front room of a huge home in San Francisco's panhandle. There are chairs lined up in front of me and behind, theater style. Since we got here early, we were able to score seats on the only sofa in the line up. The weather outside is sunny, but chill with the last of whatever cold winter has left to offer. I'm with someone special, so I've made sure to look pretty, for him and for me. There are snacks and hors d'oeuvres and everyone's milling about in a friendly/subdued/ excited way. I've never heard these guys before, but I can already tell that I'm in for a treat.

Andy McKee and Don Ross are moving to the front of the room and everyone finds their seat. There are large picture windows behind the performers and the trees make a perfect backdrop. My date sits close to me and holds my hand. An older woman (the homeowner, maybe?) introduces Andy and Don and gives a brief, albeit impressive summary of their musical history. I can't wait for them to start. My date has payed a ton of money to treat me to this private concert, and we're both hoping for some amazing memories.

Somewhere in my collection of memorabilia, I have the list of the songs they played in order. I don't know why it was important for me to remember them at the time. Maybe I knew that someday (like now, almost two years later) I would write about that experience.

The room gets quiet and they begin to play their guitars. The room's silence is replaced with music, music that I can hear and see and smell and taste. I can feel it flowing through me and through my date's warm hand. I've never experienced music like this before. I don't look at their hands because the music is coming from them, not their hands. The music is telling what they feel, not just what they can play. I'm excited and happy and relaxed all at the same time. I rest my head on my date's shoulder and look past the performers at the trees swaying in the yard behind them. Even the trees understand how special this is. I don't ever want this concert to end. This is ecstasy...

I'm in my living room, warming up my brain. I've got a book to write and I can't be sleepy or distracted. I put on Andy McKee's CD and sit down to write. The first strains of 'When She Cries' fill up the room and I am right back where I was almost two years ago.

Today I'm no longer with the date that brought me to that concert, but I see him in the same social circles quite often, lately. We're different people with different interests and we both seem to be doing well. I get more than just a passing feeling that this is the way the universe wants it to be. There was a time, at the beginning of this year, that I was a wreck at having lost not the intimacy, but the friendship. We're far from friends now, but at least we can be in the same room and laugh at the same things. We're both better this way. Time passes, and time heals. Life moves and changes and if we're wise, we move and change right along with it. But we can always go back to the moments that brought us joy.

And ecstasy.