It’s that quiet moment after rehearsal, when the energy of the last song still hangs in the air like stardust, and I’m falling back in love with the mystical ritual we call music.

Sometimes, while caught up in the logistics of producing shows, it’s easy to lose sight of this love. The million and one details and emails, the self-promotion predicament, the budgets that don’t balance—these can blur my heart’s eye. Yet, it’s always the music that wipes the lens clean, winning me over again with crystal-ship visions and verse. 

It’s that mysterious telepathy that transpires between players, that collective croon that breathes coherence into sound (and, for a few minutes, seemingly the whole universe), colouring a moment this way or that, tainting the ephemeral with a new memory—it seduces me every time, luring me back into the game. It’s in these moments that I must pinch myself. I can hardly believe my luck. This, Kimberly, is your life. Could you have planned it any better? This beauty, this drop-dead gorgeous mixed blessing of a life, is undeniably yours. For better or for worse.

And in this quiet moment after rehearsal, still soaked in the last song’s stardust, I am so in love I cannot imagine not being in love, and, once again, find myself wanting to share this bliss with the world.

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