I should listen to my boyfriend

Years ago, I fell in love with a long instrumental harp and shakuhachi flute track playing on the radio, and called the station to find out more. It was called "Heavensent" by Japanese composer Osamu Kitajima from his CD "The Source." I went to my nearest music store in Iowa to find it, and the clerk told me it was out of print. I couldn't go on eBay or Amazon: these were the dark ages before they existed. But I searched in retail and used CD stores for at least a year with no luck. Then I ended up living in Tokyo, Japan, for a year, and once again searched and was told it was out of print. When I returned to Iowa, I fell in love with a Japanese man, and we eventually moved to Phoenix, Arizona. One day I mentioned how much I still wished I could have found that CD, and he said, "Why don't you look at Best Buy?" as if I hadn't just told him it had been out of print for years now, and I couldn't even find a used copy in JAPAN. I probably went to Best Buy just so I could tell him "I told you it wouldn't be there." But there it was, a lonely, deeply discounted copy of "The Source." Bless you, Yukiya. We had a more amusing coincidence when we were still in Iowa. We were riding in his SUV on a summer day with the windows down, and I was being owly, and he was starting to get frustrated with me. "We have a saying in Japan: when you're in a bad mood, a bee is gonna sting you!" he informed me. Just then I felt something brush my inner thigh, and heard a loud buzz as a bumblebee flew from between my knees, up my body and out the window. Yukiya and I stared at each other in disbelief and we started laughing. Bless you, bumblebee, for cheering me up and not stinging me. Now you can locate "The Source" all over the internet, including on YouTube. But at the time it felt "Heavensent" to find it.