Come Monday

My friend has a bumper sticker that reads WWJBD. (What would Jimmy Buffett do?) Although funny at first glance, that question might just be a roadmap for how we navigate the stressors and sorrows of life.

Does happiness boil down to changes in attitudes, changes in latitudes?

Jimmy Buffett’s death this week felt like a thunderstorm pounding a gentle summer afternoon. His was the life soundtrack not only for many people from my generation, but for my children’s generation. Who doesn’t know the words to the ubiquitous “Cheeseburger in Paradise?” Indeed, how many cheeseburgers and margaritas have adorned Facebook this week in tribute?

Buffett’s song “Come Monday” has always been one of my favorites. Binge-listening to Buffett today at work, I found myself wondering why the song is not “Come Friday”? Isn’t it curious that he was looking forward to Monday—that day most of us dread, when we jump back on life’s treadmill. But in the song Buffett acknowledged his desire to get away from the spotlights, get off the road, return to normal daily life with the woman he loves. He missed his home— even the gloriously mundane, weekday grind of it. Through heartbreakingly simple lyrics, Buffett speaks of the blessings of a life partner and all that entails.

Jimmy Buffett knew that a life lived in well-worn sandals is a life lived well.

Listening to “Come Monday,” I noticed something I had forgotten: that it refers to the Labor Day weekend show. How timely. I started recalling Labor Days of my past. When I was a child, school typically started the day after Labor Day (no longer true here in most parts of the South, where school begins amidst the staggering August heat). I remember those childhood Labor Days where I’d stretch out on a chaise lounge by the pool, submerging myself in a book. Each year, I chased down the last vestiges of sunlight, not wanting to turn my back on the lazy pace of summer. Or put away my flip flops.

Always a summer lover, I mourned the finality, the poignancy in the Labor Day air.

I watched an old David Letterman interview with Buffett in which he claims “Come Monday” saved his life, as he was in a dreary motel room, desperately depressed and missing his wife. His angst prompted him to write. Music has that ability—to coax tears when we need them, to provide the shred of hope we need to stick it out until Monday.

It seems Buffett was no stranger to grief. He wrote:

“Grief is like the wake behind a boat. It starts out as a huge wave that follows close behind you and is big enough to swamp and drown you if you suddenly stop moving forward. But if you do keep moving, the big wake will eventually dissipate. And after a long time, the waters of your life get calm again, and that is when the memories of those who have left begin to shine as bright and as enduring as the stars above.”

Wise words that make me realize Buffett was more than a shot of tequila. He was our sage boat captain, our reminder to slow down, to savor the sunsets, to enjoy the sand beneath our toes for as long as we can. His was a timeless voice speaking of the power of love and gratitude.

This Labor Day I spent two afternoons by the pool absorbed in The Book of Lost Names. Because I read—and love—many books, I typically don’t promote any in this blog. But the story was so captivating, so inspiring, that it will stay with me long after the sun sets on this summer. It offered a message of hope and faith and unconditional love, and spoke of the need to keep moving through grief, as Buffett tells us.

Although I highly recommend the novel, do keep the Kleenex nearby.

Jimmy Buffett’s music will endure, like the azure blue oceans and fuchsia sunsets. And future generations will discover in those melodies his call to focus on what’s important.

To relish the perfect cheeseburger, the coldest margarita. To reverently witness the sunset while knowing that Monday is coming.

And that “it’ll be alright.”