“Daniel, you get there when you get there.” — My mother

 
I am writing this from an airplane, somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean. I am flying back to New York; my flight is, of course, late.

Flights are always late these days. I don’t remember when the idea of an “on time” departure became such a foreign concept, but by now, I’m used to it. You show up at the airport; you wait; eventually, if only by the grace of some airplane-loving deity, you do make your way to wherever it is you’re going.

There is a guy in the seat behind me who is pretty upset about being late. Maybe he’s making a connection at Newark, and he’s already missed it. Maybe he’s got an early meeting he’s missed. Maybe he’s just grumpy. It’s still 7 a.m., at least at this writing, and I understand that.

But of course, I hear the words of my mother: You get there when you get there. Flights are one of those things entirely out of your control. You will get there, and it may suck a little while you’re in the process of getting there, but you will get there.

Isn’t it always that way, though?

I’m thinking of Rick Short — a career minor leaguer who my Washington Nationals finally brought up to the majors a few years back. He’d been in the minors for a decade, and then produced a career year at the plate, hitting everything he saw. The Nats finally brought him up for a few games in September. It wasn’t the road he anticipated, I’m sure, but he got there when he got there.

Or Bettye LaVette. She was a Motown singer who never quite broke through in her time. Deals fell through; albums went unfinished. And then, maybe a decade ago, an album actually got out there, and it got heard. Then another album. Now she’s touring — in her 60s now, but finally with the career she always wanted. Again: Not the road she wanted, but she got there when she got there.

The road isn’t always what we want. We rarely get where we’re going as fast we want.

But if you’re moving, be thankful. You’re getting there.

At 26, it doesn’t always feel like I’m going where I want to go. And then I hear that voice: Daniel, you get there when you get there.

Some days, I’m not even sure where “there” is, but Mom, you were right. And it feels good to be on my way.

That photo of a plane comes via.

“Oh and we end up in Brooklyn / It was rainin’ so hard / Come up all day / And the rain clears it off.” — Joe Purdy

 
I was on a solo mission.

That’s what my friend, Emma, calls it. Sometimes, you want to do something — see a show, see a movie, see a game — and you don’t have anyone to go with. So you go it alone.

A solo mission.

And I was on a solo mission to Brooklyn to see a musician named Joe Purdy. I’ve loved his music for a long time. He’s been the soundtrack to many a road trip, and even more rainy days.

And I step out of my apartment and look up, and for the first time in weeks, see dark clouds. Rain? I wondered. This was last Saturday. I run back upstairs to grab an umbrella.

And then I get on the F train to head to Brooklyn, and the train comes right away. I look up at the board to see how many stops I’ve got left, and I don’t recognize any of the stops. A woman looks at me. This is a C train on the F track, she says. I ask if it’s making all the F stops. Oh, no, she says.

So I start recalibrating my trip. I pick a new, random stop on the C and hope.

And I get off, and my phone can’t seem to find the satellites, so I just start walking semi-blindly, hoping that I’m headed south.

And it starts to rain. Hard. At least I’ve got my umbrella — funny that I even decided to bring it, I’m thinking.

And I walk past a bodega, and pop my head in, and there’s a roll of plastic bags for vegetables right at the entrance. I grab one and wrap my phone in it. It’s the only bodega I’ll see on my walk — nice of it to appear right when I needed it most.

And I’m walking through this hard rain, heading south. I hit the park, and then I keep moving, through the rain, through the trees. I walk for a long time.

And then I see the line. They are standing there, in umbrellas, in ponchos. They are waiting for Joe, too.

And then rain is coming down, and then it isn’t, and we look up at the sky, and the sun is peeking through.

And I hear a cheer, and then a voice on stage, and this whisper of a song coming through, and then I’m through the gates, and there is Joe, on stage, and he is singing.

And he sings:

But I know that I love the rain the most
When it stops
Yeah, when it stops

And I start thinking.

I start thinking about the stories we tell. We want our stories to be epic. We want the journey to be hard, but we also want the pieces to fall into place at the right moments. That’s how it works in the movies: The hero struggles, and struggles, and then breaks through. We want that, too. Everyone wants that hero’s ending. Everyone wants to be standing in the rain when a singer walks onto the stage and sings about how the rain should end, and then the rain ends, and the story gets the finish it deserves.

We want those moments — for ourselves, for our stories.

And we don’t usually get them. Most of our stories aren’t epic. That’s just how it goes.

But sometimes, you go on a mission. Sometimes, you do things that are big — or at least big in your life — and you get those stories.

And like Joe sings:

And you never look back at where you came
Swore you’re never gonna be the same

And you really do swear. The story has changed you. The journey has changed you.

We let ourselves hold onto those things. We just want to believe. Because we want to tell those epic stories again and again.

That photo of Joe in Prospect Park comes via.