I was wooed by sweet rock n’ roll last weekend.

We are adults. We don’t get the fame of a teenie-bopper vampire movie. To reach cult status would be second-guessed as ironic and surprising. But we, the royal we, our royal we’s hearts, are floored and overwhelmed by the power of music and its effect on our entire being.

And we’re fine with being an idiot. Things make sense to us in this strange world.

We adjust to being poor. And we keep doing what we’re doing because there’s no other way.  We are meant to be in this world.

We become acclimated with every dusty green room we hole up in before taking the stage.  We tolerate and enjoy playing rock music in 85 degrees, smoky dank churches, with floors slick from spilled alcohol. We feel sweat make its way down our forehead and hang on our eyelashes and enter our mouths as we sing. That sweat coats the back and rains from our bodies as the chorus reprises.  We look at underage spazzes being inspired by thrashing guitar riffs and a chance at ingesting a secret beer.  We power through as strings break, arms flail, mics fall, amps are unplugged, bodies tumble to the floor, feet are stomped, balance is lost, drinks are dropped, voices are lost, levels are off, tuning strays… We carry on.

This week I’m volunteering at a rock camp for girls.  I’m sure they’ll inspire me even more as I teach them about what inspires me.