Twelve days of the indescribable, then my aunt called. I had been leaning over a big hole trying to retrieve fallen branches and was grateful for rescue. We spoke. We spoke words. We spoke in complete sentences. Her laugh — my mother’s ancestral line.
I told her how the moss felt, about the bird that just flew over my head, the tiny precious signs of life. She told me a story about water. Presence. No abstractions, accomplishments, or opinions. She told me never to forget.
It’s been much too easy to focus on the “what ifs.” To get tunnel vision. To get awash in abstraction. To go back over the past, attempting to find the key to how we got to this place, how I ended up here. To wonder what place music has in the midst of all.
In the throes of this time, keeping that precious part alive is everything.
I’m not sure what any of this has to do with the online world, except knowing when I have go to the flatlands of “social media,” that lately, here’s a place of breath and restoration — at least in comparison. Images only.
But nothing compares to living.
