Nickel Creek gave me a present

Recently, I have moved, and my mom has begun allowing me to repossess a number of my old belongings that she no longer wishes to store at their house (politely insisting I take back my crap). Last night, Thomas and I went through one of the giant plastic bins The Mother had had. In it, I found an AHSSA (American High School Speech Association) travel mug (I think I got it at one of the All-state competitions [notice I said “one of”]), a weird collection of Stanley Kubric DVDs that I think were pawned off on me by a friend in college, some pictures of babies in my family (back when they were babies), a couple of opera scores, and a lone Nickel Creek CD. Of course I love the pictures of the babies. But I remember that CD with very specific clarity. I especially like “Tomorrow is a Long Time” (though with that clarity I do not recall why I like it so much). I love how music can do that. This, I know, is not a discovery, because part of the reason any music therapist practices music therapy is for the realization of that phenomenon. 

I love that I found that CD. I feel like I was given a present. By myself. Because I forgot where I’d put it. Since I’m unorganized and lazy and moved so many times that I soon  entirely abandoned any effective means of tracking where and what I’d packed.

So it was sort of like opening a present.

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