January 9, 2026
Twenty-three years ago, on a rainy, rainy night, my youngest was making her way into the world very quickly.
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony was playing on the car radio, and hearing it was such a comfort. It reminded me that I know how things go. I’ve given birth before. Oh, there’s the clarinet. Right, I know how this goes. I love those off beats. Would you look at that rain…
The music held me close on that car ride, and now I hold it close to me. I can’t hear Beethoven’s Fifth without seeing the dark, rainy intersection of MLK and Marin Ave, and thinking, “Oh, this is perfect.“
A little less than a week ago, a good friend died from a rare and aggressive cancer. We met in the mid-1990s and one of the first songs I learned from her was, “How Could Anyone” by Libby Roderick.
How could anyone ever tell you you were less than whole?
How could anyone fail to notice that your loving is a miracle?
How deeply you’re connected to my soul.
Libby wrote it for her sister, who had recently come out as gay, and I think the family wasn’t taking it well. She wrote the song to hold her sister close, and now the song holds so many people close there are too many to count. And we hold the song close to us.
Sue and I would sing it with one another, and with friends, and with strangers. If friendships and callings have theme songs, “How Could Anyone” is ours.
Music weaves its way into our lives in both blaring and subtle ways, and it’s become my strongest personal medicine. It reminds me where I’ve been and who I am, and all the good I’m yet capable of.
I want that for you, too.
With grief and immense gratitude,
Michèle
