My husband and I were enjoying a post-snuggle conversation the other night, and he remarked that I've been astonishingly good-natured lately. I'm famous for my temper and my mercurial mood swings, but he said, "You've been really happy and steady for... since before Christmas. I don't want to jinx it, but what gives?" And I said. I think it's the Bowie. He didn't disagree.

There are a few records I can remember hearing while I was in my playpen. Bob Marley's Legend, The Beatles' Revolver, The Car's hits, Lyle Lovett's Pontiac, Bonnie Raitt and Miles Davis and The Pretenders. And there was Bowie. There was always Bowie.

At thirteen or so my father gave me and my little sister a load of CDs, so we could see what we liked and expand our tastes. One that we spun continually was Changesbowie. It was a really small collection of songs from the beginning of his career until the mid-eighties or so, so it was all over the map in style. I was entranced, that one musician could sound so different and do so many things. I imagined that David Bowie had trouble choosing an ice cream flavor. I didn't understand most of the songs–––the sexuality, the drug references, the expressions of regret, the identity crises. I did understand the joy. I did understand dancing.

"Young Americans" has been my favorite song by anyone, anywhere, because I can't listen to it and feel bad. It conjures memories from my childhood, from my city Cleveland, from the core of goodness in myself. It's been a bomb of pleasure when I was heartbroken. It's been something no one can touch or take from me. "Young Americans" has been mine since before I understood such a thing.

Just by chance, roughly a month ago, I drew Bowie for the first time. It was an idle drawing, but it's all it took. I realized that I've been afraid of drawing him for years because I knew I couldn't do him justice. He's a person I greatly respect and admire. The more I learn about him the better I like him, the more totally beguiled I am. And the more I learn, the less I find out I know. I'm finally good enough (though I still have so, so freaking far to go) that I can draw him the way I see him, the way I hear him. My drawing Two egg nest is my favorite so far. (And ten thousand pageviews in twenty days, posting nothing but Bowie? I think it was the Bowie.)

He is many things that I aspire to be. He operates with grace and finesse, a gentleman at all times. He's painfully honest and self-aware. He's full of love and has the capacity to express it. He's unafraid, unconstrained, clever as a fox. I think I can say all these things without really knowing him, or knowing him only as much as any of us can.

He's sixty-one today (or, today in Hawaii, anyway), and is as beautiful now as ever. Maybe more beautiful, to me. It might take me the rest of my life to really hear the body of his work, but it's such an enjoyable exploration.

I take off my hat to you, David Bowie. The whole world knows you're a legend. This one little girl just found out.