Why the Rodgers and Hart song, "Where or When", means more to me now.
I'm a fan of the music of Rodgers and Hart. Every day, I play one of their tunes on my keyboard. I am a poor musician. I only learned how to play in my '80s. I had taken lessons throughout the years. Finally, three years ago, a wonderful teacher made it real for me.
When the talented duo first wrote the song "Where or When" in 1937 for the show "Babes in Arms," it was performed as a love song. But now, in the last decade of my life, I've incorporated it into my belief in the afterlife.
Here are the opening lyrics:
It seems we stood and talked like this before
We looked at each other in the same way then
But I can't remember where or when
To explain my theory, I begin at the beginning with my opinion of evolution. If we all emerged from molecules, and our dead bodies decompose to simple organic matter, could that matter spark evolution again? In other words, could we have lived before?
You may think me a crackpot for this query. That is likely true. But now allow me my imagination, as well as everyday experiences that validate the songwriters' lyrics.
Consider the times you are introduced to a stranger. The handshake lingers. Something about this person is familiar. You become immediate friends. That friendship lasts throughout your lives.
Your scientific brain will come up with something boring to explain this. I prefer my warmhearted view that said person and I knew each other in another lifetime. That perhaps she was my child? Maybe that cute guy is not a sexual attraction, but a reminder that we were once a married couple?
Who does it harm to cling to this belief?
The reason that I am sticking to my story is that my departure from this realm will likely occur in the coming years. I'm not trying to be morbid, just realistic.
If I were to believe that that's it, game over, it brings me no peace. But if I allow myself to decide I have lived and died many times before, and that this upcoming demise is just part of the cycle, my last words, accompanied by a weak wave, will be, "See you later."
I am one comfortable with dialoguing with the dead. I have written several essays where I bring them back to life. They typically arrive on my balcony. In my zany brain, I reason that if they've booked a round trip from heaven to earth, they'd likely land in the atmosphere.
My typical cast of celestial characters include my parents, my second husband, and my brother. All are dearly loved and missed. These celestial chats are more sweet than somber.
Once, I used the occasion to offer regrets. In 2006, I had written a memoir called, "The Division Street Princess." Looking back, and after late-in-life lessons in my own parenting, I realized some of my words were too harsh.
Fortunately, in my concocted conversation with my mother, I apologized for claiming she wished I was taller and slimmer. But during her ethereal visit, she assured me, "My friends up here know that writers embellish; no one took it seriously."
Some of the real conversations I had with my parents when alive were impactful. I never forgot them. So it was easy to reproduce them in my book. After pleading with my dad -- who was diabetic and overweight -- to curb his overeating, he returned with, "If I can't eat, I'd rather die."
A fictional chat at pool's edge, when I criticized him for his corned beef sandwich, had Dad laughing.
For my brother and husband, their deaths were so fresh and sharp -- 2018 and 2012 -- I allowed no regrets to dim our precious pretend time together.
My brother, parents, and husband assured me they were watching over me and my dog during our dark, early morning walks. I could relax knowing that these angels were vigilant.
You can't deny the feeling that when entering an establishment for the first time, you have a sense you'd been there before. Perhaps you even guess where specious items are stashed. Let's stretch our creative powers and consider that you were there. Eons ago. But oh so familiar.
Let's make a bargain. You retain your opinion: when we die, that's it.
I'll cling to my conviction that we've lived before. But like the lyrics say, I don't remember where or when.
Perhaps we even make a wager. And in our next go around, in a billion years, we can settle the bet.