Nostalgia has a powerful pull on the human heart; its deception delightful. Mystically moving our minds eye to a time and terrain that no longer exists and maybe never really existed. A reel of re-imagination that revolves inside our head. A cerebral sleight of hand that heals the heart as it recalls a reminisced reality.
Months away from my sixtieth birthday, my head and heart are co-conspirators in creating powerful poetic pictures from my past. Reminding me of a time before the wear and tear of life would ding and damage my body and its engine. When emotional scars where fewer and friends were plentiful. Remembering a life that was all about motion and never about stillness.
Even though I don’t spend my present days marinating in my past stew, whispers of sudden sentimentality still surprise me. Like wandering down the aisle at Home Depot and hearing Loleatta Holloway and Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch sing about a good vibration or shopping for sustenance at Sprouts while listening to Depeche Mode warble about taking a ride with my best friend, who I hope will never let me down again.
Words and lyrics etched into my memory muscle. Visions of a lean twentyish Don flood my mind. Recalling a time when my friends and I would go dancing in the dark because no one I knew went out before 9 pm. Passion and perspiration; desire and drunkenness; rhythm and rage as we flickered and flirted underneath disco balls and strobe bulbs. The air thick with the scent of smoke, strength and sensuality.
The hopeful naiveté of youthful confidence, when I believed I was invincible and indestructible. Inhaling the aroma of musky masculine energy. Thinking I’ll live forever because spring had just turned to summer, my adult life beginning. A time and a season in which I would harvest both sweetness and bitterness.
My melodic blast from my past would lead me down a Spotify rabbit hole. Rediscovering all the house and techno songs that I’ve haven’t heard since my club kid days (until my recent retail rendezvous). As my ears echoed electronic music, my heart had happy memories.
My twenties felt so lively and liberating after my adolescence. My teenage life romantically loveless as I lived it closeted. Sacrificing truth, integrity and love to save my reputation and support my secret. Spiritual suicide because Love never surrenders grace.
As I reacquainted myself with The KLF, New Order, 2 Unlimited and Black Box, I thought about all the people who were in my life but are no longer. Our season in the sun together had set. My journey here continuing, at least for now.
My past and present reunited (and yes, it feels so good). My smiling heart still able to recall those friendly faces and pleasant places. A perception that involves perspective and includes the present of time.
My musing here might seem like a melancholy melody, and it is to a certain extent. But it’s not about wanting to return to what was, but celebrating what once was. Knowing with absolute certainty at fifty-nine that I have been exceptionally blessed. Hearing Technotronic pump up the jam once more reminds me that everything and every person in my life has/is a gift, even if I didn’t always recognize it in the moment (which unfortunately hasn’t been uncommon for me).
Sometime in my early twenties, as I began my descent into dancing and drinking, I detached myself from God because I believed that God had been disconnected from me. Accepting the ancient lie that’s eternally tried to deceive all humans, because nothing can separate us from the love of God. God is love.
Like Ace of Base, I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes and heart. Repentant and humbled at fifty-five, this Prodigal Son would finally come home. This elderly club kid would dance to the songs of Zion. It’s a beautiful life, oh, oh-oh-oh.
Peace. God loves you.
If you want to learn more about how my spiritual awakening came to be, you can read about it in Finding God in Vegas: A Gen X Spiritual Awakening; available on Amazon and across all platforms in print or electronic or audio.