Music

 Yeah, I play the guitar. It was very cool in the 60's to be able to strum and croon ,'The Rising Sun' or 'Bogangles'. And I sure wanted to be cool.

In truth, my meager song writing and guitar playing abilities is likely how I enraptured my wife, the most significant, the most fortuitous event of my life. She had music in her and she was attracted to someone who shared the muse. 

But I never learned music. It's all by ear for me. And it was so for my dad, Frank. He played guitar a little, but more, the ukelele. It worked so much better at the church talent shows.

I passed on a passion for playing instrumental music to my kids, especially my sons, and Connie passed on her singing gift to our daughter. The boys both wanted to play the saxaphone and, in 5th grade ,we rented two alto saxes from Al Corey. About 9 months into it, I called them to the living room for a serious discussion. "You are not spending time practicing your saxaphones. Should I send them back?" They both broke down in tears. And so it began.

They joined Band. And Marching Band, And Jazz Band. They went to Jazz Camp. They were awarded State Jazz Band honors. Eric learned to play the drums and bought a set with his own money. He joined several bands and they all practiced in our bassement...where the drums were.

These were grunge bands. "Captain Suck". "Bung Monkey". "Statistical Density". Loud. Edgey. The girls loved it. I used to pass the band members hearing protection on their way to the basement and flicker the lights when it was too late...or too loud.

They both took the music with they when they went off to college and they jammed whenever the opportunity presented itself. 

We know that Eric played drums and sax at  Ormond College. in Australia. He shared his music and they loved it. Such an intimate connection.

At his funeral we played "Off He Goes" by Pearl Jam. It is my connection.

Ryan grew musically. He was elected "Best Jazz Musician", in high school, in Portland, in the press. He played locally. at clubs, with bands, walk on. The music was in him. And he understood the music. Like I never did...or  ever will.

And now, they are both gone. So, did the music die with them? I did my best, brought it to the peak of excellence with my prodgeny.

It will go on.

Just not my job any more to make it so.

Energy

I have less of it these days. My gas tank always used to be full. Sure, when I worked hard, I would sleep hard and magically the tank was full again. I was able to juggle many balls in the air at the same time, figure things out on the fly, achieve whatever I set my mind and body to achieve.

Age and wear and tear has changed the recharge schedule. I spend more time sitting and idyling my engine. I've been ridden hard and put away wet, become more of a spectator and less a participant.

I don't like it. Like an old war horse, I want to be in the action. I just don't have it like I used to. It feels like laziness, but it's not. It's a distasteful, grudging acceptance of a slower pace. I've rounded third base and am ambling into home. Might as well, because we will all be thrown out at home plate.

Unless we go into extra innings. Never enjoyed that part of the game. Usually boring and ending in "sudden death".

Faith

 My quandry is not with the existence of God. It is with the nature of God. My "faith" is in the order of the Universe and of the quantum world. The magnificent Non-Randomness evidences something behind it all. But to humanize that Cosmic Force, to expect favors and protection, to claim an understanding and to constuct dogma and religion and edifices is pure folly. 

Surely, something is going on. What? The true mystery of our faith. Unknowable. So stop pretending. Stop manipulating. Stop killing in the name of God.

My Bright Abyss

 "Human love can reach right into death. Such a realization should ease loneliness-even for the griever who is left alone; it should also, in time, help to propel one back into life. Nothing is served by following someone into a grave. Somehow, even deep with extreme grief, the worst pain is knowing that your grief will pass, all the sharp particulars of life than one person's presence made possible will fade into mere memory, and then not even that. Consequently, many people fight hard to keep their wound fresh, for in that wound, at least, is the loss, and in the loss the life you shared. Or so it seems. In truth the life you shared, because it was shared, was marked by joy, by light. Cradled in loneliness, it becomes pure grief, pure shadow, which is a problem not simply for the present and the future, but for the past as well. Excessive grief, the kind that paralyzes a person, the kind that eventually becomes an entire personality- in the end this does not honor the love that is its origin. Is, not was: our dead have presence. You don't need to believe in some literal heaven to feel the ways in which the dead inhabit us-for good, if we let them do that, which means, paradoxically,...letting them go."

My Bright Abyss; Meditation of a Modern Believer

Christian Wiman