Suppose…
On my way to San Diego for a work related conference, I started reading “Blue Like Jazz” by Donald Miller, non-religious thoughts on spiritual Christianity. Right out of the gate I was captivated by a statement about jazz being a product of the first generation of post slavery Negroes. I studied Jazz in college, and though I played the genre for many years, never became an accomplished jazz musician. For all my time within these circles I’d never heard this fact about the purveyors of the only true American art form.
So I started thinking about how this mindset has impacted my life. That is, where has conflict played itself out in ways I could not have expected and enabled me to either prosper or go in a direction that compelled me to explore creative or spiritual channels I otherwise might not have considered. No need to for excruciating detail, but there was a season I managed to invite trouble in various shapes and forms into my life, and with fairly regular consistency. I managed to lose my driving privileges, and had to work within reasonable distance from my apartment. So while working as a waiter at a vegetarian restaurant located about a 10 minute bicycle ride away, I overheard a fellow waiter’s mother, a local public service celebrity, having a conversation about an opportunity that led to a junior college music scholarship, which I can honestly say I likely wasn’t qualified for. But I worked my tail off and actually got through my first level of formal music education, including my first taste of various flavors of jazz.
A little more than a year after getting married to my precious wife, Karen, things in the local music scene were getting rocky. My wife sees an add in a newspaper for military musicians, specifically the Navy. I call the number and talk to someone who invites me to audition. So the day of the audition, I call and ask for the person I’d originally spoken with and they were not expecting me. Seems most folks that get these type interviews are brought in by recruiters or some other “reputable” source. I’m pretty sure the smirks were real as I passed through a rehearsal room to “jam” with a rhythm section. I was a pretty scraggly, long haired presentation, not military looking whatsoever… they accepted me just the same.
Just ten months later, having gone through boot camp and six months of military music training, I checked into my first Navy band in Newport, RI. A year later, in the midst yet another tempest created by my own selfishness and inability to recognize and cling to grace, our first son was born. By God’s mercy my wife endured this season of turmoil and we headed back to FL a couple of years later. It was the end of my enlistment and I somehow had come to the conclusion the Navy wasn’t my career path, though I’d been offered the bass instructor gig at the school of music where I learned how to be a military musician. End Part A of my second level of formal music education.
Suppose my wife had left me, suppose I decided to re-up and go to another band, or take the bass instructor position? Well, I didn’t, which led to a series life changing events over the next couple of years. I heard some intriguing music that totally drew me in, on a contemporary Christian station. I got a job that was supposed to be for a woman at a communications shop where three guys evangelized me. Suppose I’d changed the station and never went back to it, or wasn’t forced to take a administrative assistant job I really needed, suppose I didn’t respond to the message of the Gospel?
As it were, I ended up in a great blues band by night and working as a graphics, data, network guy for a day job. I was struggling in many ways just to make ends meet for our family now of two boys, as well as the notion of being a new Christian, which I really had little grasp on, and ended up back in the Navy Music Program for another couple of years — all this being Part B of my second level of music education.
After leaving the Navy, and the routine of working a day job and playing whatever gigs I could get, I chose to play music only in church, leading to yet another set of circumstances that otherwise would not have happened. At a Saturday morning rehearsal, one of the worship vocalists ask for a few minutes to share a lyric for the sake of having someone put it music. A bit to my surprise, no one jumped in… I’d done this once before in college, so I took the challenge. I guess I’d always been a sort of a songwriter, but this one event helped me realize I could get back to music outside the context of such structured musical vehicles like the Navy or church. Suddenly the chips began to fall such that I met with a friend from a previous job who is an indie artist that invites me to a meeting held by a local chapter of Nashville based songwriting association… suppose I’d not listened to the voice of encouragement at that Saturday morning rehearsal.
For the last five or so years I’ve been honing a new set of musical skills, while adding the fundamentals of being a writer. But having a full-time day job makes being a serious writer difficult. I do mentally draining work all day long, and though I try to spend time on a song or playing music in some form or fashion just about every day, it’s easy to get discouraged about chasing a dream at this stage in my life.
As long as there’s breath, there will be conflict and resolution — risk and reward — faith and hope. Challenges can bring pain, but without them there’s no refinement of my being. I want to grow as a person, father, husband, writer, and musician… by past grace I’ve made it this far, by future grace I will run this race to the end. I’m pretty sure if I had never found the blog that led me to “Blue Like Jazz” I’d still have these perspectives, I suppose just not in the same light.
Tags: conflict, crossroad, grace, resolution, suppose
Every Man
Jun 14, 2008 ramblings, sojourn
It’s not easy to write about someone I don’t personally know. Though every time I’ve seen and listened to Tim Russert, he made me feel as if I did know him. His approach to journalism as personal as it gets, whether president or military leader, he never pulled punches. But as deep as his questions got, he was not harsh, demeaning, or biased. Tim Russert was a man for every man.
He probed to make us think, and in turn, make us more effective people and Americans. The pending campaigns and elections need Tim’s centered, balanced approach to the issues, who will fill this gap? In the grand scheme of God’s sovereignty, it sure seems like the most interesting of timing for Tim’s passing.
How do I miss someone I didn’t really know? Not sure, but I’m fairly certain, the impact of his death will have far reaching implications in a political climate where trust is all but completely eroded. Let every man take note, we can do better, and it starts with taking Mr. Russert’s lead — seek truth with dignity and respect and settle for nothing less.
Tags: cornerstone, impartial, people
Paint
Jun 7, 2008 happenings, ramblings, sojourn
Last night I played a gig with Rick Spreitzer and Kevin Edwards at the Green Rice Gallery in NoDa… very enjoyable. I mean, people flowing through all evening, looking at the various artwork hung on walls and placed on stands, sipping wine and beverages, munching on treats — lots of smiles and conversation. All this going on as the three of us sat in a corner and jammed acoustically (me on electric bass) to Rick’s original indie music, sort of an art on art foundation.
Rick mentioned at one point, “starving artists don’t just paint”, which I thought was a great off-the-cuff line, unfortunately, I’m not sure anyone heard it through the buzz of chatter. We were not turned up very loud and had a sort of muffled edge, so during a 10 minute break, we tweaked the sound then took off for a 2nd set. As the night progressed I felt as if we were less the foundation and more an art piece in the corner. Some folks commented as they’d wrap around the walls viewing art, buy a CD, or stand and listen longer than most before moving on. The flow of ever-changing faces was really fun to watch.
All in all, the night, which I actually wasn’t even looking forward to because I’d had such a busy and at times oppressive week, ended up being a wonderfully relaxing and inspiring time. As we packed up, the buzz between Rick, Kevin, and I continued. When the owner paid Rick, she said she hopes to have us back. We roadie’d the gear into a night totally lit with sound and energy from all the people on the streets and both the indoor and outdoor bands at the Muse and beyond. I’ve been hanging out in NoDa, albeit infrequently, for a few years and have observed it become what I saw last night… good for all. Business owners must love it, the folks that hang must love it, and other than the fools that choose to rely on crime to feed their vices, it’s really a pretty eclectic, peaceful scenario.
Funny that out of all that is enjoyable, reality comes back and paints our next hours, days, and chapters. I got home more tired than I thought I was… barely lasted an hour before my eyes were shut, battled the fact I needed to sleep about 30 more minutes, then just went to bed. Overslept, wasted half the morning, now I’m writing this entry… be right back, I need some more coffee… OK, I’m back. So, today will be “busy” with whatever I need to get done, would like to do, and maybe a little day dreaming. But reality will “paint” my thoughts and actions, and influence my hopes and dreams.
I heard on the news last night (in between dozes) that Al Sharpton is coming back to Charlotte to tongue lash our law enforcement agencies for shooting a young black man that was waving a gun at police. It would be nice if he’d come and stick his nose in the crack houses and gang dens and try to make some sense of that mess, too. Maybe take a ride through some once thriving neighborhoods now littered with for sale signs, which are perpetual lawn ornaments. Who wants to buy a house in a neighborhood that’s either gang controlled or where owners don’t care enough to mow their grass, much less maintain their houses — black, white, Hispanic… whatever! Hey, Al, why don’t you get in a Charlotte cop car on a Friday night and experience what they see and deal with on a daily basis?
And I’m so perplexed by the “Got Hope” t-shirts for B’Obama… give me a break! The Dem’s have had control of the house for almost two years now… nothing. Gas prices up what, $1.25? States in the great northwest are poised to deliver alternative energy, but for the red tape… where are the Dem’s? We’re still spending BILLIONS on space programs — who cares the dust on Mars is red — where are the Dem’s?
Our country’s livelihood is at stake, most just complain about it, hope is at a premium. If the only hope we have is to vote in a new president, that’s not a hope with much (if any) substance. My hope is in that which I can’t fathom or see, the hope promised by the word of God, which is in and of itself God, at least to me. My hope is based on promises so misconstrued and twisted by man, mis-labeled as “religion”, that I can understand why it seems so few choose to travel this narrow path. This hope paints a picture of peace for eternity, and in my heart. But along with this hope come the promises of life… struggles, fears, pain, and despair.
It’s up to me which brush I choose — the broad or the pencil thin tip — and what colors I paint, black and white, shades of grey, or a broad palette of lush colors I create from the basic set. We are all painters, artists in this life, it’s how we express and portray our hope that makes us who we are, to ourselves and those with whom we share our lives. It’s up to me to determine if hanging on to what I know is worth the possibility of missing out on adventures I’ve yet to imagine.