Up at 7am on a Sat morning. For no reason. After a 2am night. Echoes of the world bouncing around my brain.
24-hours earlier, my wife is in tears, news radio the catalyst. Later that morning, my 8-year old hands me four crumpled one-dollar bills to "help pay bills." She's worried.
48-hours earlier, Im passing out singing bowls, shakers, and chimes to 6-year olds at a local summer camp focused on urban farming and sustainable living. We practice deep breathing and visualize our own magical safe spaces. I feel at peace in the echoes of their optimistic trajectories, their luminescence. I'm also worried for them.
14-hours earlier, I sit in a local tasting room with my buddy and mentor Bill. He's always been around when I needed someone. We talk travel, teaching, marriage, addiction. Tipping points. Terror. Acceptance. Our lunch lasts three-hours and I leave a more hopeful man.Grateful.
But then, but then, 7-hours ago, in the wee hours of the night, battling insomnia, headphones on, electric guitar in my hand like a grounding rod, I think about my uncle Ken. He's dying. Brain cancer. No gentle way to put it. A man I've dearly loved and trusted my entire life. As I play, I hold him in my heart and dive into dark waves of sound, my guitar mourning this incredible tragedy. Protesting. Im powerless to fix him.
And, now, in the present, I'm on an elliptical machine at my gym typing this reflection on my phone and thinking about the things I can affect. That I can help. My vibrant, supportive pack of in-laws are visiting this weekend. My old friend Tim is also visiting, bringing worms for the kids to dissect---echoes of my childhood when he was my 9th grade biology teacher. We'll all enjoy each other and food and the Truckee river. And Ill try to be present. And I'll continue teaching little ones sound healing. And older ones writing and healing. And Ill try to be gentler on myself both physically and emotionally. Suite up. Show up. Do my best. Write love letters as much as possible.