It’s been quite a few days since I’ve really had anything worth posting to a blog. When you’re worrying over a cat, and you rarely go anywhere further than your own backyard, what can there be to write about? I could look inward, but me and my mind aren’t really on speaking terms right now. My mind is dressed up like a little mad goth girl and she’s roaming all these little dark corners and munching on a rat or two. Uhm, yeah.

Anyway, I’m jealous. Of my brother, Jack. He’s only a couple of years younger than me, but he’s lived. A great deal. Not always easily. Some good, some bad, some even forgotten. But he’s gone out and had a life. He’s still pursuing one, too.

Jack stepped out on his own, I think, long before any of us realized he had stepped out. Sure, he was still living at home, but home, in those days, wasn’t always the best place to be. The cracks in my parents relationship were beginning to show and my brothers and I were leaving the last vestiges of childhood and rose-colored glasses fast behind us. Reality was on a collision course and none of us were running fast enough.

For me, the first sign that Jack had an adult mind hidden inside him was when he formed his first garage band. I watched, from the sidelines, as he taught himself to play and sought out other kids who had similar talents. The other kids tended to be goof-offs, a little wild-eyed, and none of them seemed to grasp the fact that Jack’s love of music was much more than a few hours to get together, make loud noises, annoy the neighbors and eat lots of junk food.

Sometimes I’d watch from the upstairs porch as Jack would corral the latest talent in the garage. He was good natured, for the most part, but when it came time to play, Jack was a hawk, monitoring every note and swooping down when they went astray. He wasn’t the best diplomat, or leader, and his abrasive manner caused a few shouting matches, now and again. Some of the kids didn’t stay, but a couple did.

I don’t really remember if Jack’s band ever managed a real gig anywhere in town, but I do remember listening at night to skipped beats on the drums, harsh notes, and somewhere in all of that, there was something greater.

Several years later, after Jack had been some years on the road, playing in various bands and sharpening his skill and his talent, I recall getting a phone call in the afternoon. It was Jack. He’d left his band (or been kicked out). I don’t remember where he was, but he needed money and the only way to get it was to sell a guitar that he’d left behind with us. I was completely clueless as to what to do, but listened to Jack’s instructions and then hung up.

With the guitar in hand (no case) I headed into town for the pawnshop. The place scared me, but my brother was in Nowhere, he was alone, and he needed me. I knew I’d have to deal with the pawnbroker, something I really didn’t have the nerve to do, but Jack had said to try and get $100 for the guitar.

The pawnbroker offered me $30.

No way. I showed him the guitar, how beautiful it was. Sure, there was a scratch, but it was a solid piece that had a unique sound. I knew the pawnbroker would be able to sell it for more than the ones currently in his shop. His offer jumped to $75. I stood my ground and made up a story about it. I was good with stories and it was a simple one; a late night in Mississippi, Jack’s playing this guitar. Solo. Just up on stage playing one of his own compositions to the now quieting crowd that will be leaving soon. There’s been a man in the audience, listening, a black man hidden in the shadows. It’s the solo that pulls him out of his chair and he’s bringing with him a familiar guitar. Jack doesn’t pause as the large man sits down and begins to accompany him. At the end of the music, during the polite applause, the compliments from the blues player are for his ears alone. Jack’s always wanted to touch Lucille, so the man hands over the guitar, and Jack hands over his. They play again, simply, beautifully and then it is over.

$100 offers the pawnbroker, and I take it.

I get the money sent to Jack and for a time, he’s all right. It’s one of the first times I realize that Jack is doing far more scary things than I did with that pawnbroker. He’s having to face each day, hoping that a gig will pay off, that his bandmates won’t give him a reason to walk off the job. He’s dealing with people who could just as easily as hit him with a baseball bat for a bad performance as pay him half what they had agreed to pay. He’s in a world I have no clue about, coping with things that just make me want to crawl under a rock and hide. I’m good at hiding. Way too good.

Now Jack has gone and shown me again how brave and strong he is. In the face of his MS he’s continuing to play, to write music, to do what he loves. He has to deal with scary things like insurance, endless paperwork, doctors, blood tests, and the unknown vagaries of his physical health. He takes each day as it comes.

When I talk to him on the phone or online, I don’t think he’s aware of it, but he has this aura of peace about him — he may not feel that way, but it’s something I’ve sensed from other people who’ve lived lives that their square with. Life isn’t always high adventure, jumping off bridges, or spending a million in one night. Life is getting out there and facing the unknown even when the pit of your stomach wants to curl up and scream. I don’t know how Jack does it, but he does it and I admire that in him.

I have my moments of bravura, my fifteen minutes of living, but I always return to the safe coccoon of my home, my husband, dogs, cats, books and way too many pirate toys. I’ve faced the fact that I don’t want to leave that safety. Not these days. I’ve sort of forgotten what I wanted to be when I grow up. I’m here, now, and most of the time I’m content. I have more days of happiness than I do of despair, sadness or scary. I think that’s a good thing. Deep down, it feels all right.

All the same, there do come those days when I look at Jack, I smile to myself, and think, “I’m jealous.”