Allergies of the Soul

I had intended to visit my local purveyor of fine coffees this morning. I was looking forward to sitting at one of the tiny tables while writing or reading or observing human coffee house behavior while sipping the special blend of the day. It’s one of the simple pleasures that I enjoy immensely. A coffee house excursion gives me a sense of purpose without giving me anything specific to do. What more could a young-ish retired job-hunter ask for?

As it usually happens, life’s plans didn’t coincide with my own. Instead, I awoke with a headache. I hate when that happens! It slows down the day and slows down my mind. It’s an allergy thing. Something unidentified seems to enjoy sneaking up on me and striking me when I’m defenseless, like when I’m watching the World Series or trying to be creative with words.

After a couple of Excedrin Migraine caplets, I decided that it was time to take the dog for a walk. Maybe a dose of brisk fresh air would help. Also, Maya was giving me that goofy grin and acting like a puppy instead of the supposed 2 ½ year old adult that she is. So I hooked up the leash, grabbed a jacket and hat and off we went, looking at squirrels and stray cats, sniffing anything and everything (her) and looking for quiet inspiration while ignoring an ache in the brain (me).

After our stroll through suburbia, we returned home and the sneezing started. Not only had I not shaken the headache, I had apparently walked through some invisible plague of which sneezing fits are the first sign. Can becoming one of the living dead be far behind? Sigh. Allergies strike again. So what’s a frustrated writer to do? He considers what gives him various types of grief and writes about it. In my case, I began wondering about all the things in life to which I’m emotionally and intellectually allergic. As cruel as nature can be to me sometimes, there are other things in life that give me an even more adverse reaction. Today, one of them seems to leap to mind – Cruel Intolerance. We are a society that, no matter what we say or what’s written on the base of the Statue of Liberty, desires conformity and uniformity. We have little patience or compassion for different points of view or the people that hold them. You say you want examples? Here’s a small taste of my heebie-jeebie hit parade:

- Reactions to Occupy Wall Street. This is a grass-roots movement that has spawned similar events in other cities. People have taken to the streets to make public their displeasure in the injustices of the corporate system in America. Some agree with their stance while others do not. I have no problem with the ones that don’t agree. The same America that permits dissent permits disagreement with said dissent.

My problem is with the ones that are contemptuous of the Occupiers. Instead of simply disagreeing with the conclusions or strategy of the movement, some have resorted to name-calling and questioning the patriotism of the participants. Some have even called the movement un-American. Really? It seems to me that demonstrations were at the heart of the beginnings of our country. Perhaps if the Wall Street occupiers had called their movement a tea party, they’d be more popular with conservative pundits, politicians and Wall Street champions.

- Religious litmus tests. More and more these days we use religion to determine if someone is worthy to be elected to public office, worthy to do business in a local community or even worthy to be a friend. It’s not about personal faith, integrity or honor. It’s about religious labels. If one is labeled “different” in their professed religion, the chances of being accepted or even treated with decency decrease dramatically. Being too “liberal” or “un-Christian” (which is different depending on which Christian you talk to) is enough to make you a pariah these days. People aren’t interested in you – they’re interested in the convenient label you’ve been given. It’s the kind of thing that will get you nailed to a cross.

- Reality TV. Do I really need to elaborate?

- Televised panel discussions. Whether it’s about current events or football, the so-called creative minds of television have decided that adding more and louder people to the mix will somehow give us more insight. Now it’s not about the subject whether it be political, social or something else. Now it’s all about being loud, super-opinionated and talking over one another. If you can shout someone down, you’re obviously right. We don’t need reasoned discourse. We need vitriol and volume. When did this happen? When did we become a society that elevated loud-mouthed pundits to the status of sages? All any of us needs to be an “expert” is a childish attitude and a good vocabulary.

This is only a limited list of the things that give my soul the allergic heebie-jeebies. The list grows longer as we become more fragmented and intolerant as a society. Where will it all end? Probably when everyone has his/her own TV show and an audience of one. After all, if things keep going the way they have been, we won’t be able to accept anyone except ourselves.

Won’t the world be lonely then?

An American Malady

It's Tuesday as I begin this writing process and the weekend is over. Why wait until Tuesday to declare an end to the weekend? Because Monday night football is done for another week. For a significant percentage of America, the weekend begins and ends with the first and last football games on the schedule. That used to mean Friday nights for high school, Saturday for college and Sunday for the NFL. The NFL never scheduled on days when colleges were playing. Nowadays that line has become so blurred as to be downright invisible. You can find college and pro football on Thursdays (as well as the occasional high school game), Fridays and Saturdays. That means that you can get your football fix four days out of the week. You can use the three non-football days to talk about what went right and what went wrong with your favorite teams on the other four days. Then there's fantasy football, which is another story altogether.

Really, do we need fantasy football to fill in the small gaps in our American pigskin panacea? Face it, if your fantasies are about football, you're not doing it right.

As we got closer and closer to the opening of the spectacle that is American football, something strange happened to me. It's never really happened before and I'm not sure how to handle it. Perhaps I should see a doctor or a counselor. At the least, I may need the help of a support group. Somewhere in the process, I realized that I was suffering from Football Overload, a sub-category of something called Sports Saturation. I knew that if I sat through one more analysis of the college Top 25 and whether or not Texas A&M would somehow relocate to the Southeast Conference or heard another story about Peyton Manning or even heard the name Brett Favre, I would begin screaming and possibly projectile vomiting. It's not a pretty image, but it describes the syndrome pretty well.

Being the detective that I am, I decided to evaluate my condition and try to determine it's origin and thereby figure out a cure. After all, can this be normal? What could have led to my unfortunate situation? After hours of painstaking research and experimentation (don't ask), I hit upon it. It's not complex or hard to understand. It's not a bizarre confluence of events. It's actually something very simple. I'm suffering from the continuous football hype that inundates the airwaves continuously. The various networks have decided that what America needs today is not jobs, clean energy or a climate of honest debate instead of jingoistic attempts to take the public hostage to a political viewpoint.

No, my friends. What America needs is to be force fed a diet of football bowl projections, NFL salary information and continuous dirty laundry from the personal lives of players and coaches. We apparently need it 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Relax and let the Purveyors of Hyperbole take us to a better place. We'll all feel better about ourselves and won't have the chance to think about real life.

I suppose we must lay the blame somewhere. I suggest that a certain sports-oriented network that shall remain nameless but whose initials are ESPN are keeping the public mesmerized with a dizzying array of colorful graphics and meaningless numbers delivered with the gravity and seriousness of a Baptist preacher confronting an empty collection plate. It boggles the mind. Do we really need to know where some NFL quarterback went on vacation? Are we really interested in how many coaches are on the “hot seat?” I think that when we're honest, the answer to both questions is “no.” Still the Nameless Network (initials ESPN) tells us that we should be interested, so we make ourselves keep up with such stuff.

It's gotten to the point where a friend of mine was called “un-American” when she wanted to watch the U.S. Open tennis match instead of football. Really? The United States Open is un-American? We've come to a sorry pass indeed if that's the case. We've become victims of a huge conspiracy. We've become a populace that is misled, misguided and mistaken in its priorities. We're buying the lie of the people who tell us that they know better than we what is important. We are dumbed down and done in by our quiet acquiescence to the well-groomed, well-spoken personalities that keep us pacified while they call it keeping us informed.

Sadly – no tragically – this is not merely a sports phenomenon. This “sports is life” attitude is just a symptom of the larger issue. Americans have become a poorly informed society. We are content to let the attractive people on cable news networks and talk shows tell us what we should be concerned with and outraged about. They tell us what our priorities should be and how we should respond. They brazenly try to think for us and like so many herd animals we accept it, grateful that we don't have go to all the trouble to think for ourselves. After all, thinking is hard and we're happier when someone else does it.

Oh, we try to give the appearance of thinking for ourselves. We can quote our favorite politician's 10-second sound bite. We can deliver the party line and join a bandwagon or tea party and feel good about it. Honestly, is that the best we can do? So far, the answer seems to be in the affirmative. Until more of us have finally had enough and decide that we do indeed have functioning brains, these Sultans of Self-Importance will continue to tell us what to think and when to think it. They will still give us our opinions when they want us to have them.

It's time for a new type of American Revolution. Not a violent revolution, mind you. We've a violent society already and the last thing we need is more of that. I'm not asking anyone to “take back America” like some of the politicians want us to. What they want is to take America for their party or special interest group. The time has come for us to do something incredibly radical. We're not used to it and it may be a bit painful at first, but it's time. I'm talking about a revolution of thought. The time has come for Americans everywhere to take the bold step of being thoughtful people. Whether we're thinking about something as ultimately meaningless as sports or as important as how we choose to relate to one another and the world, we have do it for ourselves. It's not up to the TV personalities and pundits to determine our opinions and how we translate those opinions into action. It's up to you and me to do that. Don't wait for some pronouncement from the denizens of the Vast Wasteland. Don't wait for a panel of pundits. Think. Now.

The revolution will not be televised.

What Passes for a Hero These Days

I've passed it on the road a couple of times now and I still can't believe it. There are all kinds of things that we see on highway signs. We glance at them and immediately banish them from our minds. We've got more important things to think about - our destination, the music on the CD, what we did that day or what we're going to do. The only signs I really think about are telling me about the nearest gas station or where I can get a cup of coffee. That changed one day as I made my way through Dublin, GA.

As I came into town, my eyes moved to the left, prepared to move immediately back to the road. Instead, I did a classic double-take. There, staring at me from a huge sign, was a giant sized image of Joseph McCarthy, one time U. S. Senator from Wisconsin. The writing under McCarthy's picture read: “Joseph McCarthy, The Real American Hero.” It was subtitled: “Right All Along.”

Apparently, according to this sign and a couple of web sites I've found, Joseph McCarthy has become some kind of misunderstood saint, a guardian of the democratic spirit and the embodiment of Truth, Justice and the American Way (sorry about that, Superman).

Joseph McCarthy grossly exaggerated and lied about his military record when running for office while slandering his opponent for the Senate, Robert La Follette, Jr. Three years after being elected, McCarthy suddenly claimed the spotlight by claiming to have a list of members of the Communist Party that had infiltrated the State Department, the administration of President Harry Truman, and the United States Army. For the next three years or so, McCarthy took advantage of America's Cold War fears to lie and slander his way to Washington D. C. influence. In the process, lives were ruined, a climate of fear and hatred was nurtured and we are still seeing the effects of McCarthy's witch-hunt style of politics. McCarthy died in 1957 at the age of 48. The cause of death is listed as acute hepatitis and inflammation of the liver. Other sources list the cause as acute cirrhosis of the liver brought on by alcoholism.

We're getting ready for another election season in the U. S. A. (color me underwhelmed). Already we've been seeing more than the usual level of name-calling, half-truths and out-right lies. The once honored system of American politics has become a dirty system that uses dirty methods to achieve selfish results. It's not about making America a better place for all of us. It's now about making America a place that gives us what we want at the expense of anyone and everyone else. People who are the best at making accusations and using vitriolic rhetoric will be called things like “pundits” and “sages.” The true extent of their wisdom is shown in their inability to have a rational discussion and their refusal to entertain the possibility that they may be able to learn from another person's point of view. This is what passes for statesmanship and political acumen in America now.

So now Joseph McCarthy is being seen as a hero by the masters of revisionist history. Is it really any surprise that we're seeing a renewed emphasis on McCarthy-style politics? It doesn't matter who may be right or wrong. It doesn't matter if anyone is right at all. All that matters is which candidate (or pundit or sage or whatever) can speak loudest for the longest time. They are confident that you and I will accept decibels for dedication and tricks for truth.

And they're right – we will.

Year after year Americans make choices (at least those of us who vote) based on who looks good and sounds good. It really doesn't matter what they are saying. All that matters is that they give us the rhetoric that makes us feel important and powerful or makes us feel vulnerable and persecuted. Either way works for them, as long as we vote their way. They like it better when the public is uninformed and would rather watch Big Brother or some other brainless “reality” TV show than spend a little time searching out the truth for ourselves.

Until we do that, our American heroes will continue to look more and more like the late Joseph McCarthy and less like those who founded our country on the ideals of true freedom and cooperation. The sad truth is that we will get the American heroes we deserve. If we demand more of our politicians than inflammatory speeches and divisive policies we might actually get what we want. The trick is to stick to it, which we rarely do. We are content with saying that we want honesty, commitment and bi-partisanship but we continually elect people who embody the opposite. As long as we refuse to change, the system will not change.

So, who is to blame for the failure of the system? Everyone. Who is responsible for making it work? Everyone. Who is taking the lead? No one. The revisionists are winning. They haven't completely won yet, but things are heading in that direction. Is that what we want? If not, it's time to get up off our complacency and stop being led around like so many sheep. Become the kind of person that we say we want our politicians and leaders to be. Speak the truth and expect it of others. Be compassionate and require it of our collective society. That is at the heart of true heroism.

You want a hero? Be one.

Two Islands and the Spaces in Between

I've never lived on an island, but I've visited a couple. I have a dear friend who makes Tybee Island his home and makes his home open to friends who want to experience island living. It's a great chance to feel the ocean breeze, to meet characters that you never believed existed outside of a novel, and try to match your internal clock to “island time” - which is harder than you might think.

The first time I visited Tybee Island was when I was in college and I really didn't get the flavor of it then. I was there with a bunch of college friends and all we cared about was the fact that there was a beach. And girls. And food. Hey, it was college. I had the opportunity to rediscover a whole new (to me) Tybee much later.

I forgot all about islands as I tried to make a place for myself in the so-called “real world.” It was what I was raised to do and if I didn't do that, then I had failed. I went to school. Then I went to graduate school. I got a job working for a major religious denomination as part of my search to answer the “call” to whatever it was I was created to do. There's nothing wrong with any of that and I'm glad for the learning and growing experiences I had in the process. It took years for me to discover or admit that there was more to life.

It began with the call of an island.

I first truly encountered Ireland through music. I heard the ancient and the traditional music of the Emerald Isle and it spoke to me. It told me of green hills and valleys as old as time. It spoke of spirituality and humanity blended and inseparable. I'd never been there, yet it spoke of home. Once I found a book of Wyoming County, West Virginia history, the place my great-grandfather called home. It mentioned our family and that we were of “Irish descent.” I'm not sure exactly what that means, but there you are. There are Wesley's in Ireland and perhaps there is a very old connection to them. I like to think so.

When I visited Ireland, I did a lot of the touristy things – walking through cathedrals and shopping districts and going to shows. I also spent some time trying to open my mind and soul to what the island might be saying to me. I sat in the silence of Glendalough, the site of a former monastery, and listened. I looked at the ancient tombstones, worn to the thickness of half an inch, chipped and ragged around the edges, any names long ago worn away by wind and rain. Ireland spoke and I listened.

It seems that there is more to life than I had experienced and it was time that I knew it. I may never go again (I would in a heartbeat if I could afford it), but now I understand more fully that I am part of the Great Connection – spirit of humanity and spirit of the divine meeting in the harmony what it means to be alive. The song is forever. Ireland is ancient and eternally young and I love her.

Sadly, I had to come back to where everyday life waited. It was too easy to become immersed in paying bills and taking care of mundane things. It was too easy to let the lessons and spirit of Ireland become memories to be visited instead of life to be lived. I had left the island and was in the doldrums of the space in between, where the lack of breeze or current leaves you foundering.

Not too long ago, I reconnected with some incredible friends from the old days of college. We arranged to meet at Micheal's house on Tybee Island and see what happened. A lot happened, including the rediscovery of relationships that had been lacking in my life and had left an empty place where they once lived. Now they are back. It was magical and it still is.

In subsequent visits, I've met more of the folks of Tybee and gotten a small glimpse of what it means to be part of that place. It's a different pace and relaxed attitude, but it's more than that. On Tybee there is a community that loves its members. They take care of one another and lift one another up. They forgive one another when it's necessary and move on. They celebrate life and living. It's epic and intimate at the same time.

Then there are the spaces in between – the uncertainty and lack of direction. It's like the trough between the waves. There air in the troughs is stifling. No breeze, no current to move me forward or carry me back to the island. The doldrums.

There is no way around the doldrums. One can only wait for the wind to change and the ocean to decide to move. Then we can find our way to the shores we long for, be they sandy beaches or green hills. It'll happen. When? In it's own time and in it's own way.

I love the islands I've been to. Whether or not I spend extended time there, they continue to teach me lessons about life and especially about myself. I've still got a lot to learn, but the islands are patient. They will always be there. The winds will blow and the currents will move.

I'm just waiting to go with them.

Being a Father on the 4th.

There's a cool snap going on, so I'm writing this on the back deck. When I say “cool snap,” I mean that it's about 86 degrees. Not bad, but there's no breeze and the humidity feels like I'm in an episode of “Swamp People.” I don't do very well with high humidity. It's like wearing a straight-jacket of damp air that won't let go. I may drown without getting near the water.

Yesterday was July 4^th. People were grilling various meat and meat products in their backyards, my neighbor was setting off possibly illegal fireworks, and the dominant theme in every fashion choice was red-white-and-blue. I like Independence Day. I enjoy the summer holiday atmosphere, baseball games, and the general party that goes with the day. I also enjoy living in America. Where else could you seriously consider the implications of the freedoms that our forefathers intended for our country while heading out to the local Hyundai dealers' “Sale-a-bration?” Really, does everything have to have some kind of blowout, once-in-a-lifetime, prices-were-never-lower kind of shameless hawking of goods and services? I just don't believe that this was the intention of the Declaration of Independence. If it was, it would be called the “Declaration of Super Savings,” or the “Declaration of Incredible Bargain Madness.” I'd really like to be independent of all this ridiculous selling and from people telling me that I simply must have whatever it is that they simply must sell.

July 4^th has another significance for me that I've been doing a pretty good job of avoiding over the years. July 4, 1923 was the day my father was born. He would have been 88 years old yesterday. I would have continued to let this particular aspect of the day pass unnoticed but for a couple of things. On the first of the month, my wonderful friend, Micheal, wrote a beautiful tribute to his own father who passed away just two years ago. It was a moving account of saying goodbye and saying thank you. Secondly, Linda was in the process of cleaning things out of a closet yesterday that had been in there for maybe 20 years (it's amazing how stuff accumulates!). Part of that cleaning was going through old papers and photographs that my mother had stored over the years. I came face-to-face with my father again through photos and documents.

I never had the relationship with my father that others have been blessed to have. There were a number of reasons for that. Being raised an only child often means that the expectations placed on you are heavy. Being raised the only child of an alcoholic creates issues of another kind. There are memories of family that are good. There are others that I have chosen to compartmentalize and seal away, never to be seen again. There are some that cannot be entirely forgotten or put away. They are like old photographs that resurface every now and again, ready to be looked at and ready to bring back old feelings thought gone for good.

I have no intention of recounting any of those memories here. We all have ghosts and memories of the past that we face regularly. I'm just wondering what kind of memories my children will have of me when they consider their own childhood. I guess it's the concern of most fathers. What will be the lasting images and feelings we give our children to carry with them? It's something that I wonder more and more now that both my children have reached “grown-up” age and beyond.

I've done my best most of the time. I'm ashamed to say that there were times when I could have been better, sometimes much better, at being Dad. It seems that the older I get the more I remember the mistakes and the things I should have done. I wonder what impact those things are having and will continue to have on a son and daughter that deserved only the very best. How would things have been different? How could they have been better? Is it too late now to make that kind of difference?

There's no way to really know the answer to those questions. I can only do what I can with what I have in time, resources and opportunity. All three tend to decrease as the years increase, so the odds are not in my favor. Still, trying is all I have left.

If you're young enough that you don't have children as yet or if your children are young, remember this one thing: No one ever came to the end of their lives and said, “I wish I'd spent less time with my kids.”

Searching

So, I'm here at the Blackbird coffee shop where they make really tasty coffee as opposed to that bitter stuff from Seattle. It's the middle of the morning and it feels strange to be sitting here listening to eclectic music while sipping caramel crème (don't judge me – it was cheap). In the past I'd be immersed in something at the office – working with an intern, doing a report, consulting with students or figuring out what's wrong with the internet connection this time as opposed to last time. Those days are over. I'm what is commonly referred to as “retired.”

“Retired” is a funny word. It sounds like I was tired once and now I'm tired again. This is technically true, but inaccurate in this context. “Retired” sounds like I'm giving up the daily grind (another coffee reference – get it?) for sunny days and balmy nights at the beach. “Retired” should mean that I've done all I can with what I've got and it's time to rest and enjoy life. “Retired” isn't what we thought it was.

First of all, I made the decision to retire at a fairly early age. Fifty-five is not young, but it's not the equivalent of being ready for the scrap heap. I had planned to begin consideration of this decision in two or three years. Instead, I was presented with a change of plans by the Powers That Be. The age to retire at full benefits was about to be increased. To receive those “full benefits,” I'd have to commit to another seven years. Oh, and the employee portion of my family health insurance was going to increase by about $1,000 per month – the equivalent of an annual salary reduction of $12,000. This from the bureaucracy that always says that people are more important than things or systems. I also had two months to make the decision that would change my life.

So I'm jobless for the first time in my professional life. This should give me the opportunity to do things I didn't have the time to do before. For example, there are squirrels in my back yard that must be counted. I firmly believe that there is a squirrel conspiracy in our little town. They are massing in increasing numbers, gnawing their way into attics and even sacrificing themselves by chewing on power lines in an effort to undermine our communications system. Also, there are songs that are demanding be learned on the acoustic 6-string. If no one learns them, they may go away never to be heard again and that would be tragic. I also need to calculate how much sleep I've sacrificed on the altar of my job over the years and see if those hours can be re-captured.

More important than those things, though, is the need to make the journey of re-discovery. There are portions of myself that have been lost little by little over the years. In the effort to do my job the best I can and to be true to the people I am responsible to and responsible for, parts of my self seem to have faded away. I'm not sure just when they left or just where they went. I'm a little surprised that I even noticed they were gone. I was having one of those “radical-change-of-life” reflections when I reached for something inside and found that it wasn't there. It left quietly and without any fanfare or fuss. I'm not even sure what it was, exactly. I just know that it left an empty spot where it used to be. That has happened more than once and I'm beginning to get concerned that these “pieces of self” won't be back. Perhaps they found someone who will take better care of them, who will give them the proper exercise and the right nourishment. If so, I wish them well – but I also wish they'd come home.

Is it possible to find gainful employment while searching for your identity in the process? I think so. These days, though, no one wants to see you. They just want you to fill out an application online and then they decide whether or not they want to talk to you. It's impossible to tell them what they're missing by not hiring me when they don't want to meet me. Still the search goes on.

The searches are concurrent. There is a need for things like a salary and a job that I feel good about. After all, the squirrels are looking to take over the house and I need money to mount a defense. Woven through that search, however, is the other search – the one that seeks what was lost. Will both of those searches be successful? Maybe. I'd really like to believe that they will.

So, who will I be when the Great Searches are over? That's the frightening and exciting part. I really can't say for sure, except to say that I will be different from the person I was a few months ago. To what degree I'll be different I have no idea.

But I'm really looking forward to finding out.

The Acoustic Savages Are Back! (Just Accept it)

I played my guitar a lot more this weekend than I have in a long time. I’m far from an accomplished musician but most days I will pull out the Tacoma 6-string or, more recently, the Peavey bass I’ve been trying to learn and spend some time fumbling through a few songs. I don’t always get the result I want, but it’s fun and it helps relieve stress or simply puts a pleasant cap on the day.

On Saturday, Linda and I motored down to Tybee Island where we rendezvoused with a few shady characters from my college days. Back in the time of our collegiate brand of insanity, we often sat up all night talking about how we knew so much more than our professors, what we thought the state of the world should be or, when it was just the guys, about the girls we knew and wanted to know. We also became a sleeper cell within the BSU and, when activated, initiated a sudden takeover. My dear friend, Micheal, calls it a “hostile takeover.” Certainly shock and awe were involved. It hasn’t been the same since.

Once we decided to investigate a local “haunted house.” If it wasn’t haunted when we got there, it certainly was by the time we left.

Now, a lot older and perhaps not much wiser, we got together at Micheal’s home on the Isle of Freedom and Dreams to talk about days gone by and days to come. I had thrown the Tacoma into the car before we left. That evening Micheal got out his own guitar and we proceeded to see how much music we had forgotten over the years. It was the second time we had played after a layoff of over 25 years.

During that first reunion, we dubbed ourselves the Acoustic Savages and began talking about a tour. This time things got a bit more serious, musically speaking, and Micheal brought out a melody and partial lyric that he had kept in a protected corner of his mind where the jerks and cynics of the world couldn’t get at it. It was good stuff. Together we played through the melody several times and looked at the lyrics. Bit by bit Micheal, Dee and I worked together to add to the body of the song and to take it where it was begging to go. Mark listened and added a succinct rhyming scheme. Linda became our official photographer and historian as she and her trusty Minolta made a visual record of the process. If we ever become rich and famous, she will also be the official accountant.

We played as the evening wore on. Times of intense agonizing over specific words and strumming rhythms were punctuated with laughter and loving name-calling. Finally we wound down. As we looked at each other we realized that we had finished. The song was complete and we had done it! Just what we had done may be open to interpretation, but together we had finished what Micheal had begun and we were able to make it flow. A musical fantasy was born.

The next day we were still talking about how much fun the process of playing and creating had been. We wondered about other half-finished melodies and poems that were rattling around in our minds that only needed room to breathe and fresh creative input. There are some songs and stories and there are some feelings and thoughts that cry for expression. Sometimes these can only be born into the world when others are allowed to bring their fresh eyes and ears to the process.

Much as I have trouble admitting it, my life is often like that. Usually I try to be emotionally self-sufficient - internalizing frustrations, anger, angst, depression, and all kinds of other emotions that generally make life a miserable experience. If you were to ask me why I do that, I’d probably reply, “It’s just who I am.” Not, I admit, a particularly deep or enlightening answer. A therapist once asked me why I didn’t share my pain more openly with others. “Because it’s mine,” I answered – as if that explained it all.

What I meant, I think, was that this is my pain and only I can understand it’s meaning for me. Only I can deal with it. I refused to inflict my pain on anyone else. That meant that I inflicted silence on them instead, which is a thousand times worse.

So, as I became part of a musically creative process while enjoying an island breeze in the deepening dusk, I realized that personal creation is much like musical creation. Collaborators often make the final product deeper, richer and more honest. It helps to have someone listen to the melody of your soul and provide harmony or counterpoint. Whether our lives are, at any given moment, a nursery rhyme or a symphony, the music is better when voices are blended.

So the Acoustic Savages are back. You may not find our CDs in the music section of your local department store or hear us on your radio. That’s OK. We hear each other and that is what we needed.

Look out, America – we’re putting the band back together!