A soft breeze from the ceiling fan caresses my skin. Through the open window the gentle jangle of wind chimes waft in from the backyard. Squirrels chitter and fuss in the trees, where our designated favorite, Sunny, no doubt surveys her domain, waiting for the Bearer of Peanuts to come forth with treats and fresh water. She will be disappointed, for now. I’m about to assemble a new song that Victoria and I have been working on. I won’t make it into the backyard for a few hours yet,
The room is quiet otherwise, in need of ambiance. I light the Opium scented incense and sandalwood candle which Victoria bought for me, and stare for a moment at the Peruvian style pendant which hangs from the candle ring she made me. The central pendant belonged to my father. Whether he gave it to me or it was just another piece of junk among his belongings after he died I can’t remember, but I like having it close and in use like this. It’s a reminder of my father. Sometimes I wonder what he might make of my primal compulsion to make music and write. Would he like my songs? Would he like this new one, which is about abuse and longing?
For the moment, I’m sitting here listening to the chimes and the winds blowing through the trees outside. Once I get into the song, I will be diving deep, deep into cool waters, and I’m hesitant to take the plunge. As much as I love the experience, there are those singular moments when you step from the shore and shift from one existence to another. As much as you love and long for that change, there is a natural hesitation. You’re not afraid of the journey, but know that once you’ve stepped away from shore, there’s no coming back, at least not for awhile. When you return, you’ll be exhausted. So… the first step is always the hardest.
It’s time. When I return, hopefully it will be with a great song to show for the effort. Victoria has said that she sometimes wonders if I hate the process. But she has it all wrong. I’m addicted to it. Sometimes I just feel like the addiction owns me. I can no more stop doing this than I could stop breathing. It’s as much a part of who I am as the oxygen that infuses my cells. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be free of the siren’s call.
I take a deep breath. Listen to the chimes. Listen to soft hum of the ceiling fan. It’s all music. Melody. Rhythm. So much more haunting and eloquent than anything I’ll ever record with crude guitars, drums and basses. But I do what I can. When the time is right, like now, one steps from the shore and does the best that one can. I will step from the shore…
