One of my favorite jobs in New York City was as a cocktail waitress at a legendary blues bar named Manny’s Car-wash. I learned more about the life of an artist from the world-class musicians in that smoky dive than I ever did studying acting or painting in college. (I also learned a lot about Quaaludes, but that’s another story.) The blues lit me up. They made me imagine sultry summer nights on the bayou. Broken promises, bad cases of love, sneaking around, stormy Mondays, and naked angels were the standard—in the key of G. The life of a blues musician—especially a sideman—is tough. It’s full of booze and ramen noodles. Most of the legends I met played as a salve. If they didn’t strum that 1,3,5 chord progression, their heart would break and they’d die.
One particular wrinkly old man made a deep impression on me. I can’t remember his name, but I can still see his weathered face. Let’s call him Old Ronny Holmes for the sake of the story. Ronny must have been in his late seventies, early eighties, and man could that cat howl and blow a harmonica. He was one of the last of a generation of unknown greats, dignified hustlers who always wore three-piece suits but couldn’t pay their bar tabs.
Ronny would stop by my station and charm me into pouring top-shelf Courvoisier XO (extra old) in exchange for a good story. “Krissy”—for some reason all the blues dudes called me Krissy—“did I ever tell you the story of my grandpappy’s goat?”
“No, Ronny, you didn’t, but I’d sure like to hear it,” I’d reply.
He’d rub his hands together and tell me to pour him a tall glass, no being stingy. “Back in Mississippi on my pappy’s farm,” he’d begin, “there lay a deep hole behind the barn. Pappy was fixin’ to put in a new well come spring, but for years the seasons came and went with no sign of a well.
“One day us grandkids noticed that pappy’s favorite goat had gone missin’. Well, we practically tore the place apart looking for the damn thing, until we just gave out. ‘Must of been snatched up by a coyote,’ Pappy said. Little did we know that the damn goat had fallen into the deep hole. At the same time, after listening to all my granny’s complaints about the dangers of small children tearing ’round near the hole, my pappy reluctantly agreed to fill it.
“The next day old man Spencer came over with his John Deere backhoe and proceeded to dump mounds of dirt down the hole and onto the head of Pappy’s goat. When the dirt landed, Pappy’s goat would shake it off and stamp it down. The more dirt that fell on that creature, the more he would shake it off and stamp it down until finally he shook it off, stamped it down, and rose right out of that hole.”
Ronny was a wise old man, and so was his grandpa’s goat. To this day I believe he knew that I needed to hear that story. For years I have been shaking it off and stamping it down. Now it’s time to rise.
Our mental state really changes our physical condition, but sometimes we all need a helping hand to get back in the saddle. This isn’t about the sprint—it’s about the long haul. Yoga, exercise, healthy food, nature and therapy will all help. However, when we’re still struggling, some mood lube (aka medication) can be a good tool to push us over the hump. If you’re in crisis, it’s important that your pain get managed. There is nothing wrong with a little pharmaceutical relief, especially if you’re doing soul work to go with it. I spent years of my life stoking the fires of depression and anxiety. I’d suffer the side effects of a girl spinning out of control. With medical guidance I decided to take Prozac. Those pills were like a sturdy pair of boots protecting my ankles from the rocky ground. Every day we decide how to use our time and energy. Use it wisely. Give yourself permission to accept help when you feel helpless. Your inner mother is wise so listen to her.
