The Day the Music Died

Those who knew me and remember me from earlier in my life recall a guy who was fun to be around, positive, and ready to solve a problem or make some music. A friend who loved to create who appreciated science and culture equally. A person passionate about the outdoors and readily willing to go on adventures into the wilderness with friend, family, or casual acquaintance.

Over the years since the first cracks started to appear in the foundation of a life I had built, there have been many stages of loss and grief. Ironically, one of the first things to disappear for me was the making of music. As my life became increasingly unmanageable, I wasn't able to juggle all the pieces while my career became even more demanding as I moved into management.

I remember the very last string quartet I performed in just happened to be with the violist who first gave me a chance to play, an audition of sorts, upon moving from Utah to Arizona. Over the many years our paths crisscrossed and it was always a joy to perform with such a consummate musician.

I announced to the group that I was hanging up my cello for now, and didn't have any idea when, or if, I would play again. I wasn't expecting the reaction I got. It quickly became emotional, and she said something that took me aback; something I will never forget. After some tears and the questions as to why, and when I would return, she very unexpectedly got angry at me. She leveled a stare at me and said "It isn't fair, and it isn't right. That you should have this talent and keep it from people"

To this day I remember those words. I don't recall them lightly, they are painful. I didn't view what I did as anything special. Sure, I was a fine cellist but there were plenty more technically sound than me. I knew people enjoyed playing with me because I brought musical energy that I hoped was infectious. But I was a harsh critic of myself and wasn't able to devote much time any longer to practicing so I never felt my sound to be polished or complete. More like to a country fiddler jamming out in a backwoods bar where people ignored the occasional sour note because they were having too much fun drinking and dancing.

In fact, I remember one wedding we played that actually was on a farm at the very outskirts of town. It was an all day and night affair in which we weren't just window dressing, we were in the thick of the celebration. It was a rare performance in which they demanded we drink with them (if we were consumers of alcohol, and I was). The end of the night found the rest of the musicians packed up and gone along with most of the guests, and me sitting with the father of the bride sipping beers and laughing with him lamenting that I was married because he had another daughter he needed to marry off and I would make a great son-in-law.

That was who I was, and it was fun until it wasn't.

When I stopped playing, it was complete. I didn't touch my cello, and as the months turned to years and things truly began to fall apart, I became bitter towards the instrument. When a once-beloved song featuring cello came on the radio or playlist I couldn't change the station or hit "next" fast enough. Just hearing it became as painful as a dagger in the stomach.

Later during several of my many attempts to regain some sense of my identity, or maybe around Christmas, I would try picking it up and playing a little of something. Anything. But what came out wasn't music at all. It was hesitant, shaky, scratchy and weak. Disgusted, I would put it down, or worse, throw it away from me.

The fact that any of my several cellos survived those years is a testament to my family's faith that some day I would return. Their dogged determination to keep them away from me even as I demanded to have them, or sell them, or do what I pleased with them, was remarkable. It was a testament to their hope and desire that some day I would find that passion for cello, for life, I once had.

So as I sit here today, penning this and looking up and seeing them there, waiting for me to practice, I still marvel that they finally have entered my life again. The reality is I'm tired of being bitter and spiteful, and I pine for the guy that once viewed life so positively. Not just about music, but in general. As difficult as the loss of music has been, the loss of purpose and direction have been much worse. As much as it is a struggle to work my fingers along the strings and make the bow dance like it used to, dealing with feelings of anger and resentment towards a world that felt increasingly cruel has been the most challenging.

In most every way the music has always been a canary in the coal mine. As I went, so did the music. And as I return, so does the music. What I need most now is simply patience and the discipline to live in the moment. We can't change the past, only learn from it. The future is unwritten, and we can't know what amazing things or beautiful people could walk into our lives. Having mindfulness of immediate surroundings and happenstance is one of the more powerful tools I have found we can employ.

In most cases, the simplest answers are the correct ones. Choosing a more utopian life over a dystopian one is a choice. Many things are outside of our control, true, but how we react to them is within us. Today I choose to live in the present, and treat it as the gift it is.