Last night, I got to go with friends who are family to a Norah Jones concert held here in town. The music was great, the people watching remarkable, the weather cool enough to merit the colorful Mexican blanket I brought once the sun went down. I have a fond place in my heart for Norah Jones’ music. When I was in the history graduate program at the University of Cincinnati, her two albums Come Away with Me and Feels Like Home were on regular rotation in my little apartment.
A couple of songs in particular transport me to the emotions and sensations of that time. Partway into that first year of the history grad program, I took a shine to an Americanist–someone studying American history (unlike me, a Europeanist–super fun to say out loud). He was a captivating story-teller. He looked at the world with a bit of wide-eyed wonder and delight. He exuded playfulness and gratitude and he was so so smart. We ended up spending a lot of time together as we were incredibly companionable. We never dated, although that had been my hope, but I was too afraid of the rejection to ask who I was to him. He enjoyed my company, but didn’t see me in a romantic way. I suspect he was afraid of hurting my feelings in answering that unspoken question. I’m sure having someone looking with the eyes of adoration didn’t make it any easier for him, either.
Last night, when Ms. Jones played “Lonestar” and “What Am I To You?” I remembered so much of that time but in vignettes and flashes like memory does 20 years later. Since that time, I found a person with whom I knew who I was, to him, to me, to us. Then, a paradigm shift was foisted on me. So much of the time since has been this bobbing boat on choppy seas trying to figure out a new way of being. While in my grief and vulnerability, I found myself asking the same question in the song. Last night, though, something crystallized in my mind. With the right people, the answer to the question is obvious–with the friends I went to the concert with it’s easy and safe, warm and sunny. And with confidence, maturity and hard-earned wisdom, the question also becomes “What Am I To Me?”
For your listening pleasure:
Feryl Files 
I love Norah – I have both of those albums too. I’m also no stranger to the unrequited crush. Most of the time I never dared to see if it could be more, but sometimes I just knew I was the only one feeling that way. I feel compassion for my past self. And for you, having to navigate as an I without your we.
P.S. I’m SO CURIOUS as to who your crush was, but I probably didn’t know him anyway. And I’m a nosy parker, so ignore that sentence 😝
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What am I to me:)
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