Drive On.

In those first days, when everything was filtered through a lens of intense grief thicker than any shitty Instagram filter, I could not see anything past that exact moment.

No month later.

No six months later.

No five days later.

No later.

And as we filled the Rock House to Dave Whitty, Nick Earle and then the always incredible Matt Mays I still could not see tomorrow.

Matt belted out his usual hits and, like he had been able to hear me the day prior when I said into the empty car, "If he plays 'Drive On' I don't know how I'll get through it," the familiar chords came.

I will never forgot that moment.

Because, in that moment, he looked at me and sang directly, his words gentle but strong:

"There's no fear of losing,
The horizon holds the winning hand.
The rear view plays a movie
You never gotta see again..."

And later that night when I got the opportunity to talk to him, one-on-one, he said he did sing it directly and to me and hoped I would carry the message and live by it into the next days:

"Everybody seems to want the same thing,
Blinded by the light of a diamond ring.
Well look at you you've got too much to prove,
Too many songs to sing..."

There have been many song sang since.

A lot of laters that I did not anticipate, a lot of those movies in the rear view that I would argue I do have to sometimes see and mostly when I need a reminder.

It can be hard to even know where you are if you cannot see where you have come from, come back from.

And some of those rear view movies will keep repeating over and over because PTSD is a bitch and there is not much that can be done abut that other than to turn down the volume.

"There would be no good sunsets
If it wasn't for the rain.
You can't have true love
Without pain..."

There will always be pain, that ache that is chronic and only exists in those who know what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your chest and be left with a gaping, open, empty chasm.

It is like the ache in that bone you broke when you were rolling down the hill at age six and now, 36 years later you know when it is about to rain.

Dull, deep, faint but there.

"So you drive a little faster,
'Cause you don't even have a place to go.
You breathe a quiet Hallelujah,
And let it all fall..."

But, I have learned it is possible to live both with that ache and to harness it; to carry it but also use loss and grief as a driver to ensure what you do have - these new, good sunsets - are appreciated and never taken for granted.

Sunrises, sunsets and all of the days to come are visible now - all of the things that seemed so impossible, out of reach - the "never agains."

There are still never agains - but that is okay. There are now soons, eventuallys and whens.

And all of those nevers I declared so defiantly have shrunken into maybes.

With one big change of mind and heart.

"Organically," he said when describing how it grew.

I like that.

Beautifully, as well.

Beauty out of destruction and devastation.

So many songs to sing, right, Matt?

"So drive on into the moonless night,
And just for a second everything is alright.
Drive on and give it all away,
You've got to trust yourself..."

And, for the first time in a long time I trusted myself and I am so, so thankful I did.

Because these last few months and the days, months, years, every single second left to come indicate something great; something grown from the devastation left by others.

"Let yourself turn into something else,
Feel yourself fall into the great white open..."

I am liking who I feel I have, and am, turning into.

I love the person he makes me feel I am and can be.

I am glad I shook away the nevers.

So, as I sit here watching the clouds darken the room, eyes open and the chasm in my chest a little more fuller every day, thanks Matt.

Thanks for the advice and the lessons.

And I will continue to do exactly that.

Drive on.