So, on the eve of this turning, I am fine with the page that I've passed. Its been a big year. A good year. I made it to the stage of a major festival I've watched from the sidelines for almost a decade. I made it to Mountain Stage, a show I've listened to for years. I got to meet some heros of mine, got to sing with Nanci Griffith and have a drink with JD Souther and have dinner with Ian Hunter and listen to Judy Collins sing a song I wrote. I watched the snow fall with my parents in my new house in a southern town and I watched my nieces and nephews grow and smile and laugh and stumble and get up again. I spent a lot more money on shoes than I should, but I walked a lot of miles and I wrote some things I'm proud of.
So, later this same day, I am in another's house, and, although I have played in the largest venues of my career this year, on stages near Broadway, thousands of people in gold gilded red velvet seats with Playbills and black and white photos rustling in tiered balconies, tonight I rest in a strangers home, having played to a handful of friendly Pennsylvanians who had never heard of me, because their neighbor or sister or daughter or friend is a fan and had invited me into her home to play a small house concert. And I shared things I'd never eat in my life like tomato pie and little hot dogs in croissants baked in an oven. And I played a song about a boy who dies while a 3 year old girl in bright green danced in front of me and I could hardly bear the beauty and oddness of it all and so I closed my eyes and thought of the unbearable lightness of it all, stealing a phrase from one of my favorite authors, and thought of how far away and how close sometimes perfection is.