AMELIA, IT WAS JUST A FALSE ALARM

A late summer scare, a winter memory, and taking refuge in my favorite Joni Mitchell song.

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Selfie of a time traveling end-of-summer mama in winter black and white.

Last month, we had a scare.

I’ll spare the details, but with two cancer survivors in the family—me and my son, Lou—medical scares happen more often than I’d wish. We’re all fine, but for a few weeks, our already chaotic end-of-summer household turned into a pressure cooker. Would the cluster of clouds revealed on a routine scan resolve into light or dark? Magic eight balls came to mind, as did darkroom photography, and the sort of patience none of us have anymore.

As always, I took refuge in music to survive the wait. Few songs comfort me as much as Joni Mitchell’s ‘Amelia’ from her luminous 1976 album, Hejira. Even the black and white LP cover brings relief—Joni skating alone on ice, with the stark promise of the open road at night. The songs are spacious; you can feel the crisp winter air, the parting of the clouds. Listening now, I’m reminded of what Buddhists call Buddha energy—an all-pervasive, peaceful, and expansive space.

I first heard ‘Amelia’ when I was a sophomore in high school.

My friend, M. had come back to boarding school from summer camp with a whole new hippie look, and a sudden knowledge of music and sixties counter culture. There was much mention of J., a camp friend who lived in Manhattan, and whose image kept appearing in the black and white photographs M. spent hours developing in the darkroom.

I didn’t mean to blow M.’s cover, but J. and I both lived in the city, and we eventually crossed paths when I went home one weekend. M. had stolen J.’s look and vibe, but I ended up with J. herself. That winter, we spent our days popping in and out of the now-extinct Afghan Import shops, searching for scarves and incense, digging through records and zines at Kim’s Video on Bleecker Street, and browsing the Integral Yoga store, where we bought sticky little bottles of Vanilla Musk perfume and sesame candies wrapped in tissue paper.

We held hands on the 1 train, heading uptown to J.’s sprawling West End Avenue apartment. She had a mysterious illness, which only added to the Victorian melancholy of our doomed, illicit friendship. When J. wasn’t feeling well, I’d sit on her bed with my guitar, butchering songs like Neil Young’s ‘The Needle and the Damage Done’ and, eventually, ‘Amelia,’ while her parents anxiously awaited news of yet another round of scans and blood tests. You could feel the pressure in the mahogany walls, the faded stacks of books, the Indian tapestries, and the endless ropes of trailing houseplants.

I don’t remember how that winter ended, except that it ended badly

Understandably, back at school, M. was furious when she found out I’d become J.’s weekend consort, and I’m sure I didn’t handle it well either. Maybe I cut J. out of my life altogether, clinging to ‘Amelia’ and our snowy Village nights as greedily as M. had taken so much from her, too.

We can be so stupid when we’re young.

++

People will tell you where they've gone
They'll tell you where to go
But till you get there yourself you never really know
And where some have found their paradise
Others just come to harm
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

++

Waiting for the doctor to call, lost in memory and song, I sat in my house, wearing my embroidered hippie dress—similar to those J.’s mother used to wear—surrounded by my stacks of books, Indian tapestries, and my endless ropes of our trailing houseplants. A bit of West End Avenue upstate.

I wondered about J. Was she still alive?

Outside, I taught my kids the names of the clouds: cumulus, cirrus, stratus. As I looked up at the sky, it dawned on me that ‘Amelia’ was a nod to a certain ill-fated aviator. Leave it to me to totally miss the point!

I popped into my friend’s shop. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the row of tiny perfumes, the same health food store kind J. and I adored when we were tramping around the snowy Village.

How does time pass so quickly? And how will this all end? I doused my wrists in Vanilla Musk. As I stepped outside, my phone finally rang, the familiar 212 hospital number…

Amelia, it was just a false alarm

A MEDITATION

May I find spaciousness and peace in the clouds, in the unknown.

Feel free to share a time you had to wait for the Magic 8 ball, for the picture to develop, for the clouds to part. Or perhaps a scrap of memory that kept you company while you stayed the course. Here for it!

Sending love, and wishing you clear, glorious skies.

xx Alexa