Sitting on my boat, in the companionway, I used to cry my eyes out listening to Me and Bobby McGee. I don’t know what it is about that song. I fell in love with it in France, where I used to play it on my cassette player, hooked up to French speakers that cost 20 francs at the dollar store. I’d sit in my little apartment in the old village, freezing my ass off, watching the champignons bloom from the leaky roof. I’d move one of the apartment’s two chairs in front of the bookcase by itself, and turn up the walkman as loud as it would go, and let tears stream down my face.
I did the same thing on Secret, listening on my little solar-powered computer, with the sun streaming in.
Something about that song. Something about having such happiness that you’d trade all your tomorrows for it. Something about looking for that home, and hoping you find it. Something about freedom being just another word, about having nothing left to lose. It used to be the saddest idea in the world—nothing left to lose.
Now I see it a different way. Maybe the most beautiful thing in the world is having nothing left to lose. To be able to hold life so loosely that no matter what happens, I’m free.