When I was 8 or 9 years old I saved up enough money to buy my first two CDs. I remember going through the doors of the record store. Ding. I remember flipping through all of the records first. Flip. Flip. Flip. You know that sound vinyl makes when the plastic covers slap against each other? Anyway, I wasn’t there for records, that was old people stuff. I was there to fill my new DiscMan with a something – anything – other than The Monkees or Spyro Gyra, which was what my parents listened to.

And I looked and I looked and instantly I knew what I would buy. In one hand, I had Tom Petty’s Full Moon Fever; in the other, Magical Mystery Tour by The Beatles.

I remember the moment I got back to the house, ripped off the cellophane wrapper, and shoved the CD in my player. I remember pulling the scratchy headphones over my little ears and pressing the plastic play button. I remember the sound of the CD player getting itself started. Like a mini jet engine whirring, waking up. And then that sound. That sweet, sweet sound. The swelling sound of jangly guitars. And…

“She’s a good girl, loves her mama…”

When I was 10 or 11 I took a jazzercise class. Yes. A jazzercise class. Shut up. It was 1992 and I was 10. And our teacher Miss Janet had the brilliant idea of teaching us a routine to the unplugged version of “Layla.” Yes, an adult – responsible for human female children – decided it would be a good idea for pre- pubescent girls to kick-ball-change their way through a song about unrequited love with another man’s wife.

Anyway, I don’t remember the performance or anything else about that experience, thankfully, except for this one moment. We were finished with rehearsal and Miss Janet had let the CD move past “Layla” to the next song, “Running on Faith.” And I remember stopping. Dead in my tracks. I dropped the laces to my Keds. I couldn’t move. All the kids in leotards rushing around me. The parents chatting about carpools. Everything vanished. In that moment, nothing else existed. Only me. And Eric Clapton’s guitar.

I believe as human beings, in any moment we are reaching for the sensation of being in flow. Of being in “the Zone.” Everything we want to have or do is our attempt to experience that sensation. To, for a few fleeting moments, feel connected to ourselves and the world around us. To experience what it’s like when everything feels possible and good things feel inevitable. To feel worthy. To feel whole.

And for thousands of years human beings have been doing all sorts of weird, fun, crazy stuff to feel that sensation. We’ve meditated and dropped acid. We’ve sung together and twisted our bodies in knots together. We’ve chased finish lines together and climbed mountains together. This is how we’ve experienced flow.

And that’s what happened to me when I heard Petty in my DiscMan over 30 years ago. That’s what happened to me that day in 1992. In a pair of slouch socks and spandex shorts on a sticky gym floor. In a fleeting moment between dance practice and a minivan ride home, I experienced the sensation of being. I experienced, through the work of a master, what it was like to be nowhere else but the present moment.

I went into Boogie Records the other day to look for some music and confirm the flip flip flip sound is still the same. (It is.) In rooting through the CDs, my husband found two of his old favorites. Instantly, he was rattling through a story about listening to them as he drove up and down the canyon. How they rattled around in the floorboard of his old Subaru.

That’s why I love music. It has the power to seduce our brains into lingering in the present moment. And in those present moments, in between Zoom calls and text alerts, we experience something deeper than our superficial existence. In those present moments, we experience stillness and grace.

We took those CDs home from Boogie Records that day. Not because we needed them, but because there’s something satisfying about having something tangible in your hand. About pressing a plastic button. About plugging in a cord. I don’t know what it is. It feels like a tactile way to hang on to the ephemeral.

Thank you, Boogie Records. For speaking directly to my analog soul.

Allie is a writer and podcaster living in Gilpin County. Her podcast, “Hippie Church,” explores the intersection of music and spirituality. It will be released on December 1, 2022.