Today the music returned. A canister with about two dozen yoga class mix CDs that I painstakenly made on my old computer showed up right next to the CD player in the yoga studio. Had it been here all along? No, it had not. It also hadn’t been anywhere else in the studio that I could discern, nor in my car (which I took apart, not an easy thing with only one door that opens properly and three rows of seats to climb over and under) or home (even more challenging given all the stuff every which direction). I had looked for this little cannister for weeks upon months then gave it up for good. I imagined the cannister falling soundlessly out of my car one day and rolling down I-70 toward better adventures that being the soundtrack for my weekly yoga class.
The business of making yoga class mixes takes time and inspiration for me to bring the right balance of bass-infused chanting, Celtic ballads, jazz standards, a good helping of Mary Chapin Carpenter and Eva Cassidy, and a perky showtune thrown in for good measure. Still, I couldn’t help but mourn in miniature the loss of some inspired moments when great songs I couldn’t remember led to other great songs I couldn’t remember. I told myself that eventually I would squirrel myself and this computer beyond the time-space continuum to recreate many more yoga mixes for my classes. Eventually come spring to be more exact.
It’s come spring, and today as I put down the new cannister of yoga music (which somehow is also holding 9 CDs full of Springsteen mixes for long road trips), I saw the old cannister. “Where have you been?” I started to ask, then realized I didn’t actually need to know. The music rolled away, and now it’s returned. As I slipped an old friend CD into the player today, I reveled not only in the deep river voice of Mary Fahl, right before a Krishna Das chant, but in the mystery of lost things returning.
