Last night I had the pleasure of spending an intimate evening with JT (James Taylor) at the Spokane Arena. Of course, I shared him with 7 or 8,000 other people, but I am convinced he was singing to me. All the tunes I grew up with, all the tunes which spoke of love and activism and of caring. What a night. The arena was filled with positive energy and good juju…

One favorite tune about love, and showering the people we love with love stayed with me long after the ride home. Knowing that love is an ever abundant commodity, meant to be dispersed liberally and freely. Love is not limited to a little bag…it is not limited to  discrete amounts. So, if I give love to one of my friends, my other friends  do not suffer. No, it’s like that generoisty of spirit is contagious. Stingy people need not apply.

As my girls were growing up, they often tired of JT on the music player in the car, cassette tapes, cds, whatever form…they got sick of JT. But, “Mom” got her way when traveling.  The girls got to listen to their music on the way to  an adventure, and Mom got to listen to her music coming home…usually because Mom was frazzled and worn out. Music to soothe the soul (no offense Cindy Lauper).

Last Thanksgiving, we had an all-girl Thanksgiving at Jess’s new home in Denver. Imagine the surprise experienced by Jess, Maggie and me when the offer of playing JT was greeted with a resounding “yes” even from the littlest sister, Lindsey. Shock and amazement. Had Lindsey joined the JT fan club….FINALLY?

Jess cranked up the music in the kitchen while food was being prepared. Happiness filled the room.

I glanced over at Linds as did the other girls. Linds looked pretty confused. Suddenly Lindsey announced, “Hey, that’s not Justin Timberlake…”

More serious stuff later.

Smooch…share the love.

Beth

www.gratefulness.org WORD FOR THE DAY Wednesday, Oct. 17

Suffering requires us to descend into ourselves. As there is no other way out, we are obliged to call on the power of the soul and spirit. When we succeed in doing so, instead of groaning and crying out in rebellion, we exhale a delicate perfume.

Omraam Mikhael Aivanhov