my fantastical parents.

I am writing this while listening to the blues. I don't think I have ever blogged to the blues before. It's in honor of my epic evening last night. I have, for many years, dreamt of seeing Eric Clapton play live. A good portion of the reasoning behind my desire was so that I could see the look on my father's face while watching a musician he has idolized since the musician's beginning. He said last night that he had one of his albums that he remembers listening to in one of his old beat up pick-up trucks (those were the only kinds we had, and there were many) in tape form, until he literally wore the ribbon raw.

I moved this past weekend out of the garage apartment that I have always written so fondly of on this blog, and into the basement space that I have a feeling will receive fond space as well. It all came from one of those memorable over wine conversations I was having with a friend. It wasn't just the wine, but I remember this conversation in particular being one that stirred up necessary things in the both of us, and one where we didn't just speak of this or that, but rather, what we both could do to challenge ourselves to change. I wasn't sure what would come of my future, but I knew that I wouldn't be staying in Tulsa forever, and I knew I needed to find a cheaper form of rent for some time before I left. She casually mentioned how all of her fiance's things were piled in her basement. "You have a basement," I asked, as the wheels in my head began to speed up. "Yeah...Just around the corner from the kitchen down the stairs," she said. I paused. "Is it livable," I said? "No, not really," was her response. "Tonia used to paint in there, but it's pretty tiny, and you have to walk through it to get to the laundry." She paused, as the wheels in her head began to speed as well. "Actually, you know? Maybe. If it was cleaned up," came next. I reminded her how primitively I am capable of living, and of the tiny apartment that I lived in while in Korea, and how much my world opened up in that small space. By the end of the evening, it was decided.

My parents came on Saturday to move my big things to their storage space, the things I am not sure I will ever need or see again. They came on Sunday to pick up the necessities and deliver them to my new underground home. I have always wanted to live in a basement. I like making believe a lot in my life. Birds follow me, a hope that unicorns will talk to me, and also that I will eventually be able to fly from tree top to tree top like I could in my dreams as a child. These are all attempts to make the mundanity of life a little more magical. And my imagination goes wild at the thought of residing in a basement. If ever gnomes were going to come out of their coves to talk to normal people, it is my thought that they would begin by entering basements, as that's most similar to the comfort of their underground home. So if they are going to come out at all, living in a basement, I have this feeling that they would appear to me before the rest of the world, which puts a sparkle in my eye.

Just by helping me move, my parents helped make my fantastical dreams come true. They also built a wall out of nothing to provide privacy, cleaned my the apartment I was moving out of, patched up the holes in the basement I am now residing in, bought me dinner, and worked on my life until nine in the evening despite the fact that they both had to work the next day, while I had the day off. No matter how I age, how old I get, how many birthdays that pass, they still enjoy parenting.

And I equally enjoy being their child. Despite how much I wanted to hear Eric Clapton play "Layla" live, and then getting to see it, my very favorite part of the entire show was the look on my father's face when Mr. Clapton began to strum his guitar to the notes of "Cocain". My mother is the most giving person I know, not just to her children, but anyone in need. In between moving my things on the longest Sunday ever, she helped my friend and room mate Liz cover up all of the holes in the backyard so that Ruby, an escape artist and dog, wouldn't be able to. Liz' parents live in New York and I am sure would help her if they could. My parents enjoy sharing their parenting with my friends.

I don't like thinking of this, naturally. But anytime I am at a point of change, the big picture stuff pops up. Will I ever need this stuff I am putting in storage again? Will I ever live in Tulsa again? Where will I be this winter? Who will be in my life? Will my parents always be there for all of it? The only answer I know is the last one. They won't.

And though I don't want to dwell on it, I will say the bright spot in it all. I am thankful...For their help, and for the good they have always tried to bring into my life that I know will carry me, feebly, through the times when they aren't there. For the blues, and that the blues will always make me feel close to my father, wherever I am. For the love of animals, and people, and that any stray dog will always take me back to the selflessness of my mother, wherever I am. And until I have to face the painful reality of life's cycle, I will dwell on the fact that my parents are still here, offering me love, parenting as much as I will let them, and that when I go home, they will be there to greet me, along with the dogs, and the sound of the blues, playing in my head.