Rainy Windows Joni Mitchell and Me

The rain is doing that thing again – blurring the edges of everything outside my window. It makes the streetlights look like hazy, watercolor blobs, and it always seems to happen when I'm trying to focus. Like the universe knows I need quiet concentration to dissect another song, and decides to provide a soundtrack of muted sighs instead. Mom says I romanticize weather too much. Probably true.

I spent most of last night with my headphones on, revisiting Joni Mitchell’s *Blue*. My dad wandered into the living room at one point – he was looking for something in the pantry, I think – and just stood there awkwardly while I listened to "A Case of You." He cleared his throat a couple times, then mumbled something about needing more salt. He doesn't get it, obviously. Not the music, not the need to pick apart lyrics like they’re clues to some grand, universal mystery.

It feels weird sometimes, this whole online thing. Like I’m broadcasting my inner thoughts into a void and hoping someone – *anyone* – recognizes something of themselves in them. The Phoebe Bridgers show… that was different. Seeing the Tumblr reblog with two hundred notifications felt like confirmation, even if those people were strangers. It’s weirdly validating to know words can travel further than you can.

I still remember National at Blossom Music Center last year. The whole experience felt enormous – and not just because of the crowd. I knew then that sharing my thoughts about music could reach beyond the walls of our tiny town. My dad thinks it's a waste of time. He keeps talking about “practicality” and "career paths," but what is more practical than expressing yourself?

It’s funny how some songs just burrow under your skin. “A Case of You,” for example, isn't even *my* story—it’s Joni Mitchell's. But the way she writes about longing, the raw honesty… it hits you somewhere deep down. And then you start searching for that feeling in everything. Everything gets filtered through this lens of lyricism and melody.

My mom leaves little notes on my desk sometimes. “Keep writing,” they say or, “You’re doing great.” It's not always what I need to hear – because criticism is useful too - but it means a lot that she even tries to understand. She doesn’t really grasp the nuances of indie folk or the intricacies of songwriting, but she supports me anyway. That feels different than just polite encouragement; it's genuine empathy.

Sometimes, when the rain is like this—a soft wash against the glass – I wonder if anyone else feels exactly what I feel. If there’s another kid in a small Ohio town staring out the window, headphones on, lost in Joni Mitchell and wondering if their words will ever matter to anyone but them.

Maybe that's enough. Maybe just writing it down *is* the point. The rain keeps falling, blurring everything into something soft and indistinct. And for now, that’s okay. It gives me space to think – and maybe, just maybe, to write something someone else will recognize.