Uniter/Divider?

“There are three kinds of people in this world:  those who are good at math, and those who are not good at math.”

This good-natured tease of the old trope that the people of the world can always be broken down into two groups is one of my favorite jokes. I love how the joke itself can’t quite seem to get it right, and how—in a roundabout way—it makes fun of that seemingly constant need that we humans have to divide ourselves, often into two opposing groups.

In recent years, I’ve noticed a theme in my life that keeps reoccurring. In this theme, I am offered a choice: do I wish to accentuate the differences between two people or two groups of people, or would I rather focus on the similarities between those same, supposed opposites? I find myself, as I get older, more and more choosing to focus on what unites us rather than what divides us.

Please understand that I haven’t suddenly purchased a very expensive pair of rose-colored glasses through which I am now choosing to see my fellow humans. I still bear—as so many of us do—the scars of many a past encounter with various people who caused either inadvertent or intentional damage. I have seen what fear, envy, jealousy, hatred, contempt, and mindlessness can do. Through it all, however, I have never ceased to be amazed at how much there is—underneath all of these differences—that we share in common.

I have also come to learn about myself that the value I hold in perhaps the highest regard is the desire and need to seek out, nurture, and support a connection with my fellows. If I were to allow myself to constantly be distracted by the differences between us, I would never be able to make that value come to fruition in my life. So, I find myself, more and more, choosing to find the things that unite us and that allow me to make connection with others.

Music is certainly high on the list of ways that I attempt to do this. The success—or lack thereof—that I may have at any time is difficult to assess. After a lifetime of using my head for virtually everything, I’m learning to use my heart for these sorts of things; and, inso doing, I am learning the value, usefulness, and beauty of the heart. If I can find and appreciate this in myself, then I will be much more able to find and appreciate it in others.

So, I look forward to connecting with many of you in the future as we explore this music together.

ACES

So today I did something I've been meaning to do for awhile: I took the ACES test. If you're curious, here it is:

https://www.ncjfcj.org/sites/default/files/Finding%20Your%20ACE%20Score.pdf

My score? Four. As I read various articles about this, I came upon this little nugget:

"As your ACE score increases, so does the risk of disease, social and emotional problems. With an ACE score of 4 or more, things start getting serious. The likelihood of chronic pulmonary lung disease increases 390 percent; hepatitis, 240 percent; depression 460 percent; suicide, 1,220 percent."

I have at various times in my life felt like a walking, talking miracle, but never dared say that to anyone, lest they think me a narcissist. But now I know: I AM a walking, talking miracle, at age 56.

Hopefully, the miracles have only just begun!

A New Journey

I have spent my entire adult life as a professional guitarist. I achieved that by logging thousands of hours of practice along with seven years of studying music in college—which lead to two degrees from institutions of higher learning—not to mention being an active listener of any variety of popular recorded music that was ever played in the home of my childhood. It all lead to my obsession with and love for music and playing the guitar. That I have been able to provide for myself as a professional guitarist for some forty years is nothing short of a miracle.

But long before any of that ever happened, back in the 5th grade when I got my first guitar, I taught myself a handful of chords—by ear—and began writing songs. At first they were simple, earnest, probably very generic love songs written (without her knowledge) for a girl who sat in front of me in class. Then I moved on to trying to mimic various songs I’d heard on the radio, setting out for myself the assignment of “try to write a song that sounds like Insert Title of Pop Song from 1973 Here but isn’t.” I remember, once I was introduced to jazz chords and melodies that were more syncopated and chromatic than what I was used to, moving on to imitating songs from the “Great American Songbook” that my parents listened to.

Probably the most important thing to mention at this point is that all of the songs that I was writing included lyrics and would need to be sung, by a singer, which was something I never really thought of myself as being (in spite of spending hundreds of hours singing along to records, trying to match not only the pitches and rhythms but also the timbre, tone and gestures of the vocalists on those records).

This preoccupation of mine of writing songs—with lyrics—began to fade during my later teens as I immersed myself into the study and practice of jazz. This is not to say that it faded entirely away, but it definitely became something I did only on rare occasion. It is also noteworthy at this point to say that, as the years went on into my early adulthood and my first marriage, the fruit of this preoccupation was something that I rarely—if ever—shared with anyone. It became a secret. As my career as a professional musician took off, and as my reputation as a jazz musician took form, it became ever more important for me to keep this secret. As a result, my forays into songwriting became more and more infrequent; to the point where most years would go by without my having written a single song. The year in which I would write a song became a rarity.

All of this is to say—to the few fans out there that I may have—that I am embarking on a new (or old, as it were) journey artistically. For the last year I have been allowing myself to write songs; several of them, about a dozen in fact. I am now in the process of recording these songs. My next record will be of mostly original songs on which I will sing and, of course, play guitar. The musical styles presented will be things to which I was attracted when I first started playing music. Those styles will be many and varied. My northern star is emotional honesty and my highest self seeks musical integrity. Wherever those things take me is where I will go. I hope that you will go with me. It could be quite a ride!

 —August 9, 2018

No Goodbyes: An Essay

In the immortal words of the late, great lyricist Hal David: what’s it all about, Alfie?

All of our major religions address, in some way, shape, or form, the meaning of life. They also attempt to assuage our fears about death; for, if life is only for a little while and then it ends, what’s the point?

To me, the thing that really gets to us is that, in this life, we make connections with one another, and sometimes those connections feel so deep and so profound that we simply cannot fathom that those connections merely end. I think that this is the spring from which hope flows.

To me, hope is the feeling that, although our bodies may cease to exist, whatever it is that one may call what’s inside each of us continues to live on in some way, shape, or form; and so too will our connections between one another live on.

So, we tell ourselves, when we part company, “See you later.” Of course we have no way of knowing whether or not we will see each other “later,” but that’s not the point. The point is that we continually guard against that most lethal of human afflictions: hopelessness. So, what we’re really saying is: “I hope that I’ll see you later.” And the response is basically, “Yea, I hope so, too.”

And I think that this hope extends to everyone we have ever known, even those whose presence in our lives may have caused us pain and anguish. We hope that in some other less earthly realm all of our petty differences and human failings will not matter to one another, and that we will be able to forgive each other. I believe that this is especially true of our most intimate connections. So what we are doing when we part company is promising to one another, through our faith and belief in something we cannot name or describe, that we are not really saying “goodbye,” that, in fact, we never, ever say “goodbye,” only “goodbye, for now.”

To me, this is the ultimate promise that we make to one another, one that I think provides an answer for the question Hal David proposed. Without hope, what indeed is the point of living? But with hope, there’s always a chance, always a possibility, always a reason to see if tomorrow will bring with it something better, something good, something more to hope for. Hope that there will truly be, come what may, NO GOODBYES. I believe that this is the hope of all of us: that we will always meet again. Somewhere. Somehow. Someday. No goodbyes.