Beautiful

Two random things to know about me: first, I've been a Gordon Lightfoot fan since I was old enough to sing along to the radio (my father used to put us to sleep whistling "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.") Second, I love the word "beautiful."

There is one thing about living in a place like Seattle; it's an amazing place for music and just about every singer who ever was and is or will be popular comes through here on a regular basis. So I guess I have to give Seattle its props, because if not for it, I'd have been living in Little Rock and not here, where my lifelong dream of hearing Gordon Lightfoot live came true.

After a short marriage and a move to Seattle, my husband left, only a few months after I had gone back to school. I was stuck in a strange place and under a lot of stress. I had no idea if I'd have enough money to survive. And so when I saw the concert announcement, I fought with myself over whether I should "waste" money on something "frivolous." But I bought two tickets anyway, and I'll always be glad I did.

I asked another older coworker if she wanted to come along, and we headed north to Tulalip Casino that night. I was terribly excited . . . people always ask me, including some of my students at Lingua Espresso, if I've met Bill Clinton since I'm from Arkansas. Of course I have, and who cares? Arkansas is a small state and Bill Clinton is a politician. Gordon Lightfoot, on the other hand, is a poet. We had drinks (me a few, her MANY) and then went out to find our seats, just chairs set out on the grassy ground in front of the outdoor stage. We were randomly seated next to two guys about my age who were as excited as I was (and who looked sorry for me having to shush my drunken coworker on one side and listen to the music on the other). If only those who write about "eyes shining with happiness" could have seen mine that night, listening to "If You Could Read My Mind," and "Carefree Highway," and "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," and "Beautiful" as the moon rose over the mountains. That last one is a special favorite:

At times I just don't know
How you could be anything but beautiful
I think that I was made for you
And you were made for me

And I know that I won't ever change
We've been friends, through rain or shine
For such a long, long time

Laughing eyes and smiling face
It seems so lucky just to have the right
Of telling you with all my might
You're beautiful tonight.

At some point during the concert, I reached out impulsively and took the hand of the guy next to me. He squeezed back and put his arm around me. Not too tight, nothing inappropriate. We just reveled in the music like little kids and held hands and sang along softly, and to each other at the song's end:

Well, I must say it means so much to me
To be the one
Who's telling you . . .
I'm telling you . . .
That you're beautiful.

It was a beautiful blessing to be able to share that song with someone that night. I think he was a gift from the universe, personally. I call both men and women beautiful, because beautiful is not just a physical thing. There have been many people who have passed through my life who are truly beautiful, and I tell them so now, not being as shy as when I was younger. Each of my rare close friends has been beautiful in so many ways.

I never saw that guy again, and I didn't intend to, so I wasn't sad. He was there for that night. I never saw the coworker again, either. When I was younger, I would have gotten so upset over her drunken antics that it would have ruined the experience, but I let it go in favor of drinking in the bigger picture. The bigger picture was, is, and will always be . . . beautiful.