Music

I grew up in an old 1900’s  farm house.  There was a room we called the living room even though many of the areas in the house were a maze of miscellaneous spaces. An early 80’s sectional couch, textured of tan vomit corduroy color decorated the corner of the room. We could often be found trying to run among the top of it until our mother would call from the other room, “No walking on the furniture!” Four tall old glass windows and a fake brick wall that housed an annoyingly every 15 minute chiming grandfather clock(ending with an on the hour GONG!) completed the decor. 

     The room was situated between the dining room and a walkway room (maybe once the main entrance of the house). It had two open walls so it was an inviting space.  Besides the couch, heavy curtains to block the cold drafty windows and chirping grandfather clock there was a meager old pie safe. Within this old cabinet was a stereo system with speakers on each side that would have made Alexa tremble. My father had a good ear for quality sound, we always had the best equipment to listen to records, tapes and cds through the years. 

     He didn’t sit in this room very often, he was usually seen in the black pleather recliner in the family room, remote in hand flipping channels and kicking us out of our regularly scheduled programs. But every once in awhile he would visit the living room. Sitting in an old and uncomfortable wooden antique dining chair that was positioned in front of the stereo cabinet. He would play a song, the beats blasting through the amped speakers. He would repeat it... over and over. 

     I was young, moving through the rooms on my way to toys and imaginary play oblivious to this routine. Years would pass and I would start to notice on a deeper level the practice of my father sitting there... listening.  The music would fill the tall ceilings, mahogany wood door

frames, soaking in the essence and bouncing back acoustics like a golden rainbow. I began to appreciate the beauty of those moments, in his own prayerful and meditative way. Submerging in those lyrics and notes, wrapped in a musical blanket. I learned the language of music and it’s healing powers. 

My Son

She looked down at blood drawn on her hand, the usual spot. Nails dug deep in delicate skin. They heal into age spots. Looking at her hands, they show years of 60 instead of 40.

I hate you mommy, you’re the worst mommy, I want you to die.
These words were so normal to my ears that until I read them in print from another mother they didn’t even take affect.
Light switch flick and my boy who was just spewing venom curls up in my lap apologizing. I’m sorry mommy, I didn’t mean to have fights.

Daily dialogue that becomes so routine you don’t think anything of it.
The adrenaline surge when I have to plan whether to leave my house or return, to say yes to a play date or refuse, to plan options of how I can make the best ending in a given scenario.
You don’t roll with the punches, you have to plan every minute, every errand, every social interaction. It can be a warm fuzzy smile full of giggles and charm or it can be a screaming top of your lungs bloody boxing match that leaves heart strings bruised.

What is the blessing in this?  Time. Time has slowed, because each day is a violent
volcano that can remain quiet or can spew hot lava. You record each success, each calm interaction. You reward being able to get in and out of the store with smiles, because that is victory. Time slows and you respond to the positive moments because that is what pushes you through the bad.   It’s hard some days to see, jealousy arises often until you remember that everyone has their own volcanoes, their own lava, their own ashes.

And the most beautiful flowers arise from that once poisonous molten rock.