January in Montana captures 'dreary' like no other place I've been. Nothing pronounced about the mediocrity that creates an epic sense of struggle or an emotional vacuum, rather a simple absence of color running through the veins of this barren landscape.
But still, I dream about vibrant splashes of red and green and yellow and blue, warming my feet and brushing against my skin as they dance through the air like notes in a familiar tune lingering in my ear. And then before they blend together and drizzle down the window of my sleepy imagination, they play the sounds once again to remind me that they are indeed memories and not simply a beautiful creation in my mind.
Living in Montana, you learn to cherish the impermanence of summer. You know that fleeting moments will be illuminated by a brilliant palette and you live for those throughout the rest of the cold, grey seasons. Year upon year, those small flashes of light become touchpoints of life in an otherwise dreary existence. You manage the pattern of grey by celebrating the fleeting patches of vibrant color riddled throughout for sustenance.
I was on encore 2 of hour 16 of day 3 of month something-or-other. Montanans adore Colin Meloy and likewise, he seems to embrace coming home with equal devotion. Maybe I blindly assume we all come home the same, humbled and grateful. Nonetheless, wherever I was in my own mind in hour 16 of day 3 on month who-knows-what, I was not concerned with the exchange of devotion between an artist and his hometown fanbase during encore 2. And I wasn't stuck in a dream-state with vibrant colors, being reminded that in only a few short months, this moment too would disappear and only re-emerge in a brilliant drizzle in my sleeping mind. Instead, I found myself bogged down with the noise of the day that rarely (if ever) sounded like music and only ceased once the last bus pulled away from the compound.
I briefly stood at the base of the stage stairs to wait for the house lights signal. But as I stood in stillness, my mind cleared just long enough to hear the last song begin.
I heard Colin Meloy's voice for the first time as he sang his final song of the evening to an entirely silent audience, content and grateful for his homecoming. Whether it was the disruption of my physical momentum or the sincerity in his tone, I was immediately drawn back from wherever the fatigue and frustration of the day had carried me. And instead, it refocused my senses onto the sounds and colors that were brushing by me in that long awaited celebration of summer.
Onstage, there were brilliant chartreuse and magenta lights casting a warm glow over the crowd as they remained still like quiet children patiently waiting to hear the next line of their favorite bedtime story.
Captured in the music and the crowd's response was the awareness that the trees surrounding us were just reaching full bloom and in that exact moment, I was witnessing the touchpoint of summer's mutual exchange of life with all of us.
I knew then, this combination of tones and reds and greens and blues and yellows was certain to become one of my favorite memories, dancing through my January slumber like a warm blanket of color, warming my feet, brushing against my skin, and playing over just one more time so I could sleepily begin to piece the familiar sound of summer.
Comments