Nature and the soundtrack of real life
There’s a stillness that descends on the living when someone they love dies. Under the flurry of details, phone calls, arrangements, and death details lies stunned silence—even when the death was anticipated; even when the death was a blessing. When my mother died a couple of months ago, the image I had of myself was standing stock still in the middle of a shallow, rushing river—frozen in place while all of life moved on around me. I knew I must move forward…one step…another step. I knew that after a painful 3-year death process, it was time to turn away from the dead and embrace the living. So I went through the motions of daily life. I took one step…another step. And I looked at life as though through thick Plexiglass; I could see it, but imprisoned in the stillness, it seemed impossible to reach it.
When one of my friends died years ago, the music of Bach pulled me back to life. When my favorite grandmother died, Dave Deason’s “Reminiscence” broke me open. And with all other deaths and losses, music reached me when nothing else could. This time, however, the stillness defeated any music I played or listened to. I sat at the piano, felt my fingers pass the keys and heard the sound I created as if from a mile away—distant, mechanical. Nothing sounded right; everything felt ridiculously pointless.
What eventually cracked the Plexiglass of grief wasn’t music, but nature. The stately, silent movement of the Fox River, the sight of pelicans soaring overhead, the sound of the Northern Cardinal calling “Birdie, Birdie, Birdie,” and a small white butterfly perched on a sun-drenched yellow wildflower. I started to hear the rustle of the Cottonwood tree and notice how its branches bent down to kiss the surface of the water. I began to notice seagulls riding river currents, just for the fun of it. And one warm morning, while walking on a wooded trail, I heard, smelled, felt, and saw life itself—in the buzzing of invisible insects, the trill of multiple bird songs, the loamy richness of fertile soil, sunshine on my arms and a breeze in my face, and the greens and pinks and blues and yellows that saturated trees, shrubs, grasses, and flowers. And I knew—as surely as I knew the reality of grief—that we’re all part of this. We’re supported, nourished, and healed by the holy indifference of this natural world—one we too often forget to notice.
There are so many things that cause us to shut down and close our senses to what’s around us. Grief is just one of them. And yet, as artists, the most dangerous thing we can do is to close ourselves off. Many times this happens unconsciously—we’re distracted by the virtual world, or we’re busy, stressed, angry, or fearful. We shut down slowly and it isn’t until we feel that we and our music are drained of life and color that we ask ourselves why we feel so artistically impoverished. In the past my response to this sort of deadness was to push myself further into music. Sometimes that worked, but most of the time it made things worse.
Perhaps this is because music—when it’s done right—springs from the fertile ground of real life. If we’re closed to life, we have nothing to offer in our music beyond the echo chamber of our narrow minds. What I’ve learned in the past few weeks is that the path to reconnecting to myself, music, and the world isn’t through the mind, it’s through the senses. It’s allowing myself to experience the richness of everything with the wonder and innocence of a child. This isn’t anything that can be thought or forced into being, and it sure doesn’t make for a pithy slogan. It occurs in surrender, in sinking deeply into the cosmic dance of life that surrounds, supports, and permeates all of us. It’s remembering that for all our noble ideas, artistry, and accomplishments, we’re creatures who are part of a vast natural web of life.
No matter how frozen or blocked we feel, life will trickle in, if we let it. It comes in through the sparkle of sun on water, the scent of freshly mown grass, the caress of a late afternoon breeze, the taste of creamy chocolate ice cream on a hot day, and the sound of church bells, bird songs, and a cordial greeting from a stranger. Eventually, through these rivulets, the Plexiglass dam opens, and music, words, connection, and meaning flood back into our lives. We find the motivation to rejoin the river of life. We open our senses, hearts, minds, and music to the beauty and healing that surrounds us. And we’re free to move forward, grief mingling with joy, death with life, into a deeper connection with our world and ourselves.