POCKETS OF TIME, SUSPENDED
On knowing, our interlocking hearts, and an ode to music, the beach, oh just all of it.
Hi everyone, and a warm welcome to all the new readers! I’m humbled to share that we are a community of over 5K, and that Resilience recently hit the Top 100 Rising in Culture on Substack. What!? Thank you for being here however it works for you, especially with so much vying for your attention. I write this from bed, recovering from Covid. Perhaps that’s why this week’s offering is even more dreamy than usual! But I send love to you all as we navigate this particularly impossible time in our world. Find the pockets, the little moments, to recharge so you can best show up. Perhaps this week’s missive will help. xx Alexa
Years ago, when I was deep in singer-songwriting and performing, there were songs in my live set I particularly looked forward to each night. Not the whole song, but pockets of it—moments where time suspended and I drifted out of myself, someplace else, as though taken in by a wave.
My co-pilot, Tim Foljahn, and I had an intricate, interlocking way of playing together. Sometimes, it felt like we shared a brain. If you’ve ever played music with someone, you know what I’m talking about. You lock in and drift off, held by something larger than yourself—something mysterious and beautiful—until the refrain resolves, and you're returned to the shore.
In those moments, Tim and I would look at each other with a knowing. Or I’d look up and notice him smiling, too. Later, as my band grew, the others joined us in this knowing. We’d wait for those little moments—those pockets of time, suspended — and if we were lucky, the audience would feel it, too.
Last week, I was lifetimes away from those memories. I was at the beach with my kids and our school gang. But there was similar moments of knowing between us parents, and of course between the kids. We spend so much time together, sometimes it feels like we all share a brain.
We chased our kids—and each other’s kids—in and out of the wild waves. I caught my friend catching me as I held my heart, watching my son Lou collect shells and stones in a broken plastic pail, and West run free, all the way to the end of the beach. I caught another friend, lost in thought, as she watched her child playing in the sea foam—just sitting there, without a care in the world.
Such moments of peace, of wonder… before everyone started fighting again. We were with a bunch of 10- and 11-year-olds, after all! But how we rested in those little moments, those pockets of time, suspended.
Later, back at the barns where we were staying, I couldn’t sleep. I was solo with the boys, as my husband Ian had to stay back and work. We were sleeping under mosquito nets, and the boys tended to get stuck when they had to wake up and go to the bathroom during the night—meaning I was woken up quite a bit.
There was a part of me that didn’t mind the sleeplessness, knowing that my kids will be 12 soon, and that their needing me at all is fleeting. I lay there, afraid to fall back asleep in case they woke again, perhaps hoping they would.
In my tangled nest of feelings—tinged (if not singed) by the state of the world—I grabbed my headphones. I needed music, a pocket of song to harness my heart, my complicated longings.
I chose an old favorite: Crosby, Stills & Nash’s Guinnevere. And I share it with you, so that you might find relief, share in the knowing, and lose yourself—just for a second or two—in the water, in the waves…
I think you’ll find the pocket, it comes before they even start singing:
and I’ll meet you there.
A MEDITATION
May we meet each other and ourselves, even for a second, in the knowing. May we remember our interconnectedness. And may all beings be safe, happy, healthy, and FREE.
Sending love to all. Feel free to share in the comments a pocket of song you return to. Maybe we can make a playlist to get us all through…
xx Alexa
PS. Last year’s essay from the same beach remains a favorite for you all! I still get notes about it, thank you. Here’s THE BEACH IS FOR OTHER PEOPLE. Enjoy!
