Missing Photo
“A lot of hours go into a performance. Wish I had a photo of myself performing yesterday, but I don’t, no one took one. For a musician to stay current, relevant, and in person, it’s a cluster F now. Not that I ever stopped playing. I’ve never stopped improving my craft. I’ve gone as far as I can promoting what I do without feeling like an asshole. In the arts you learn to branch out, like incredible trees. The envelope you expand may be a song today, a garden tomorrow. The wind almost blew me down, up on O’Donnell Road today. Working in Sara’s garden, it was not the predicted “breezy”. Huge oaks intoned loudly, in the grip of micro-bursts, threatening loss of limb, certainly arresting my attention. This would not be a good way to die, by branch. But at the same time, crouched next to fairy pink roses fully blooming and vigorous coneflower, I’ve gained strength. The five year old marooned in Vermont at his grandmother’s summer home, brings me espresso and a chocolate biscotti. Settled onto ground with heels dug in for leverage, I’m relieved to be cutting dead flowers, and clearing the path to winter. The vitality of what’s left eclipses what’s been lost. There is no way but forward. Gaining confidence, I feel almost giddy, a tad ruthless. I understand the hidden power of roots. I know who can be trimmed or decimated, without being truly destroyed. For I am one. Honed to the point of uncomplaining servitude, like the marathon runner who has forgotten why they run, I continue my labors, never stopping for lunch, rarely beholden to my water jug. My client remarks on this. “You don’t stop for lunch. I’m worried about you”. It’s just a pattern I’ve gotten into, I say, I’m sure it will change. Not being able to shop in stores, drop in for a coffee, sit down for a meal with someone who likes me; this has turned me into a survivor now. A victim of vicious domestic violence and abuse, who can no sooner wear a mask than go back to being belittled and beaten. No matter: I rise up on every unexpected gust and listen to what it tells me about my potential. The more it blows, the more I stray beyond the boundaries of what I thought was my life. What I thought was my life is gone. What I am now is built on the architecture of an ancient, empty prayer.”