A little over a year ago, in August 2016, I traveled to Chicago for the Pearl Jam show at Wrigley Field.  The trip began to take shape as a restorative getaway . The timing was perfect — it fell just a few weeks after our wedding anniversary, the kids would be away at camp, and I was much in need of some recharging and soul searching.

My husband had things to wrap up at work, so I flew to Chicago a day ahead of him.  Other than picking up our tickets and wristbands for the show, I had nothing on the schedule.   I went for a run along moody Lake Michigan, watching a storm that was threatening to move in any minute.  As always, the shuffle gods got it right with their music selection  —  Pearl Jam’s “Save You”, and Eddie Vedder’s “Far Behind” and “Rise” all showed up to greet me and remind me of the true agenda for the weekend.  A sign along the path warned: Slow Down…..followed by Detour Ahead.  Clearly, the universe was aware of all that was rattling inside my head.

The rain started, slowly and familiarly at first, and then the skies opened, dumping hard rain with thunder and lightning directly overhead.  I sought shelter in an underpass with several others, and couldn’t help but giggle at how perfect it all was.  Seattle rain just mists, trapping everything in like a damp flannel shirt.  Chicago rain washes you clean.

Taking the hint, I sat later that evening at the bar of a pizza place, ordered deep dish for one, and resolved to make changes when I got home.  I would be less stressed.  I would find time to run more.  I would return to writing my blog.  A sign behind the bar read, “A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life”.  That seemed like damn good advice.

My husband arrived, and finally so did the concert.  While I’ve seen Pearl Jam plenty of times since 1992 (“Ten”), this show was magical. We were only five rows from the front rail, on Stone’s side.  As the band took the stage, I exhaled and let the night in — it was lovely, and I was ready, and I would return home revitalized.  They opened with “Low Light”, and then fell into “Release”.  It all hit me.  By the time they reached my favorite line and I raised my arms in the air, I was too choked up to sing along.

But back at home, my resolutions quickly took back-burner to a home remodel, work deadlines, and the usual life stuff that always seems to get in the way of real change.   As the months lapsed, so did the insights I had gained.  Soon it was the anniversary of the show, and then eventually last fall, the premiere of the documentary movie, Let’s Play Two, chronicling the Wrigley shows.  I dragged my kids to see it with me.  As the movie reached the footage of “Release”, I suddenly felt uneasy, like I couldn’t breathe. I vividly remembered the emotion of that moment in the show, how I had vowed to keep that feeling alive.  And as my eyes scanned the crowd footage to find myself, I acknowledged the pit of regret now fully formed in my stomach.  I hadn’t kept my promises to myself – again. (“Royal Reminders to Self” ; “Everything Has Chains”).  It had been more than a year without writing, with fewer miles on my running shoes, and with too many well-intentioned lists, now languishing in my journal.

I wouldn’t say I’m a slow learner, but I am stubborn and set in my ways.  It took awhile, but, finally, the moments of clarity gained alongside Lake Michigan and in the GA pit have made their way across country to me.

And what I knew in those sweaty, rainy moments, and the concert bliss that followed : SHED IT ALL.  Hold close the things that matter, and get rid of the rest.  I’ve always felt like I am straddling several worlds at once, never fitting squarely into one.  There is so much that we carry with us — we claw to get in, to feel accepted, to feel good enough.  So much internal questioning — wondering what we did wrong, why we weren’t included, why something didn’t go our way.

But all of this mental conflict is just the baggage of habit — a grubby shirt that no longer fits, but that we never think to replace.  We forget the fundamental question of what we truly need.  And in the moments when we do remember it, we see that what really matters is moving forward, and letting go of things that no longer serve us.

What matters is being emotionally present.  Grateful.  Vulnerable.  Soaking wet in running shoes.  And to give ourselves permission to Release.