It happened to me in a neighborhood grocery store.

Sunday morning we were sipping our coffee and Paul mentioned a free jazz brunch at Elm City Market.

I could tell he wanted to go.

Naturally, I already had a list in my head of all the things I'd be ticking off that day, but remembering my commitment to relax more, I said yes.

The quartet, consisting of a bassist, drummer, keyboard and vocalist, had just set up in the market's "kitchen" section.

The vibe was 100% hospital cafeteria before hospital cafeterias got a vibe.

I was excited to be there anyway, which is a pretty big deal for me because I've always been a music outlier.

This is not something I often admit.

It's not that I don't like music - I do. I'm a girl who usually has song lyrics in her head and loves singing along to the radio (even though I can't carry a tune).

The outlier bit relates to my experience of music.

I am the one at the concert watching the audience rather than the band. I love seeing what people look like having a shared experience - I love the way the energy of that buzzes through the air.

When I do watch the band, it's them - the individuals holding the instruments - that I'm paying close attention to. I watch for how they feel about the music, about themselves in that moment, and about each other.

It's the lens I see everything through.

Until Sunday morning, I saw it as a kind of heightened awareness, one where I enjoyed music AND was tapping into other things too.

I was wrong.

As Paul was immersed in the music and I was "enjoying" it, I was also looking at the wall of grab and go beverages (ranging from kombucha to Diet Coke) that served as a backdrop for the band and the sign directly above the bass player's head that said THIRSTY.
I loved the kooky mismatch of jazz and groceries.

Then, there was the girl who stopped between the 2 sets of automatic doors on her way out of the store to apply the deodorant she had just purchased.
"What is she doing?" I wondered, laughing to myself at the prospect that perhaps she'd slept somewhere she hadn't intended to.

The bassist was clearly loving the arrangement of There'll Never Be Another You, but he seemed distracted by something.
Curious. (I later found out that he was watching the clock because he had a second gig and had to blow out of this one early.)

The vocalist was, little by little, hitting her stride.
She hasn't done this in awhile, I thought. She's scanning for feedback - smile and show her it's all good.

The piano player and drummer were in the zone - completely swept away by the music they were effortlessly inventing, note by note, right in front of us.
"WOW - this is one of those lightning in a bottle moments," I thought. Somewhere inside the music, only popping out for brief nods at one another, they were creating something extraordinary and they knew it.

I was in love with every bit of what was happening.
"THIS is living," I thought.

And then a whisper from within...
"Is it? Is this living? Are you living or are they? Close your eyes."

When I did, it all fell away.

The soda.
The florescent lights.
Paul.
The band.
Every thought, insight, musing was instantly gone.

Only the sounds remained, and they OVERWHELMED me.

For the first time in my life, I may have understood a bit of what Paul hears - why his experience of music has always been so different than mine.

I was moved beyond words.

I have a client who is often moved to tears when describing a good meal or a moment with his dog. I once saw him stifle the lump in his throat recalling a bowl of perfect lemons in Italy.

Moved by the beauty in everyday things.

The extraordinary really does exist in ordinary moments, but we have to step away from ourselves to see it.

When was the last time you allowed yourself to be truly awed by what is sitting right in front of you?

As for me, I'm listening to all of my old Billie Holliday albums, alone, in the dark and my heart is just about bursting.