Or So the Music Sings
I played that special CD today, the prescient album by Johannes Linstead, “Sol, Luna, Tierra”. I played it over and over again, recalling the message I’d sent to my future self that day while listening to it. The day I attained that defining sense of certainty, realizing that one stage in my life, a long extremely important stage, was coming to an end and that another stage, a very uncertain stage, was about to begin, one where, again, I’d be starting over, the cords of love frayed to strands of gossamer.
That day the music spoke to me directly, insistently, unequivocally, its hauntingly dulcet tones plucking out a symphony in strains of “nuevo flamenco”, revealing how hard it would be to leave everyone I loved but insisting it was something I should already have done, something I should have done when everything had gone so disturbingly wrong, when all the boundaries set up to protect us had been so savagely breached; telling me I’d hung on too long, and without purpose. Others had told me that as well, special people, people I valued and who I think valued me, but it had been the music, in its prophetic shifts of melody, rhythm and especially pace that provided me the insight into what was not only inevitable, but for the best. I guess that music comes in shades of epiphany as well.
That special place I’d been born into had been calling me home for a long time. I think it always had but its voice was turning insistent, harmonizing with the melody that was embedding itself in my soul, assuring that I’d never forget that moment, that instant, that me; the music that spoke of sadness and loneliness and despair but then slowly turned into hope and then, to a bitter-sweet joy. And that day I answered it, or at least decided to. That music touches my heart still. I play it often, reminding me of the person I was then and the wisdom and courage he’d somehow found. I love that me and sometimes I admire him, although it’s the many people I’ve been since, those he sent out questing to face an unknowable future bound in tear colored threads, that perhaps deserve my respect: those who somehow carried me through to today.
Pretty amazing but not unusual, … sad to say. So many of us go through that same journey nowadays. Too many without hope and too many who just can’t make it. It’s not something you overcome, or at least not something I’ve overcome. It’s a process that goes on from day to day, some better than others; others pretty tough. It took a lot of faith and a lot of despair to take that step, the first of so many. But, here I am, still kicking, and perhaps, … the best is yet to come.
Or so the music sings.
© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2013; all rights reserved