The Music Lesson

by Victor L Wooten

  “If you wanted to know more about your mother,” she continued, “would you get a book and read about her? Would you find a teacher to teach you about her? A book might help you find your mother, but once you did find her, would you worship the book? Would you even need the book anymore? Or would you go directly to your mother and talk to her, listen to her, experience her, and unite with her? You and I both know the answer. Experiencing your mother directly would be the absolute best way for you to learn about her.

  “Pertaining to Music, most people choose the first two methods because that is all they know. They don’t realize they can do the latter. They talk about me as if they know me. They write books about me. They open schools that teach about me. They create whole departments in universities named after me. They even create and use numerous methods to play me, only to argue about which ones are best. And most of the time, it is only the superficial me they talk about, not the real me they once knew in their hearts. Can you believe they’ve actually turned me into a business?”

  I could feel her power as she spoke, but then, as I continued to listen, her voice became so enchanting that it gave me goose bumps. “Goose bumps never lie,” my mom always told me.

  “What people don’t do anymore is talk to me, simply and honestly talk to me,” Music continued. "The few who do don’t expect me to answer. My relationship with computers is about to become more intimate than it is with humans.

  “People refuse to feel me. I reach out to them, but they retract their hands. That saddens me deeply. I tell you, it is a lonely world I live in. All I ask is to be felt. I reached out to you, and you took my hand. That makes me happy. You give me hope.”

  I felt sad for her. I could feel all her emotions seeping into me. It made me cry. I made a silent vow to remember that feeling and use it to help me change my ways. I realized once again that Music is real, alive, and approachable. I could talk with her, sit with her, embrace her, laugh, and cry with her. I also knew that I didn’t have to try to create her anymore. She already exists. All I have to do is come to this place, and Music will be waiting, complete, whole, and alive.

  I wanted to help others know what I knew. I wanted others to feel what I felt. I wanted to help others remember their union with Music in a real way. I would do my best to help keep her alive. I would no longer be a part of the death of Music.

  "Thank you,” I cried. "Thank you so much. You’ve helped me understand the responsibility, honor, and joy of being a musician.”

  “You are quite welcome, but you should also thank your bass. The instrument you have chosen helps you come to me on a daily basis. In all your musical years, when have you ever truthfully said ‘thank you’ to your bass guitar?”

  The question stunned me. There was nothing I could say. She paused, allowing me time to digest her words before she continued.

  “Do that honestly and frequently and notice what happens. All the elements that make up your instrument are alive. Your recognition and appreciation of them may change the way you respond to each other.”

  Thank my bass. It was a profound concept and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I found it hard to believe that I’d never done it before. I’d never even thought about it. After all the years of playing the instrument, I’d never once said “thank you” to it. I knew that some things in my life would have to change.

  “Remember,” she said, “play me all you want, but you must know this: it is only when you allow me to play you that you will know me completely because then we will be one and the same.”

  Allow Music to play me? That was another new concept that made complete sense. I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. I realized for the first time that my relationship with Music had always been one-sided. I’d never really listened to her. That type of relationship never worked.

  “Only through the power of listening can you truly know anything,” she told me.

  Those words continue to stick with me.

  Closing my eyes, I allowed her to take control. It caused a shift in my energy and for the first time I could sense my body. Something was growing inside me. It felt as if my whole body was vibrating with intense speed. I also noticed that I was glowing with vibrant colors, the same colors that Music was emanating. Music and I were becoming one. As good as it felt, I didn’t trust myself enough to let go completely. I was still holding on to something.

  Relax. Let go. What are you holding on to?

  As soon as that thought entered my mind, I had a quick glimpse of myself, as the bag lady pushing the cart.

  I fought hard to hold on to the feeling of light, the feeling of union, the feeling of—Music. I was losing it.

  “Help me! What should I do?”

  "There are no shoulds or shouldn’ts. There are only choices. What you choose to do next is up to you. No one can tell you what that is. You have been shown all you need to know.”

  I recognized the voice. I opened my tear-filled eyes to see Michael standing in front of me in the exact place he’d stood when he first appeared in my house. Was it he, or was it Music who’d been talking to me just moments ago?

  For the first time since I’d met him, Michael was dressed in ordinary clothing. He wore black slacks, a button-down white shirt, and a tie. Even his shoes were normal, and there was no sign of his skateboard. I couldn’t believe it. I was confused. “I must be dreaming,” I said out loud.

  Sitting up to get a better look, I shook my head and wiped the tears from my eyes. As they cleared, a change took place. Michael now appeared to be wearing the blue NASA-STYLE jumpsuit I’d originally seen him in. In one hand was his motorcycle helmet. His skateboard was in the other.

  “Michael!” was all I could think to say. Even though he now looked like himself, I was confused even more.

  “Dress and act ordinary and you produce ordinary students, ” was all I heard him say.

  With a quick smile and a wink of his eye, he was gone. Just gone. I didn’t understand. I shook my head once more to see if it would make him reappear. It didn’t. I couldn’t figure out how to feel or what to think. The only thing I did know was that it would be the last time I would see him. I fell back on the couch, staring into space, clutching my bass in my lap.

  I glanced across the room and saw a skateboard on the floor. I sat up. Michael’s, I thought, or . . . wait a minute, is it mine? I used to own one. I reclined once again. I couldn’t begin to figure it out. My mind was racing and I started to feel dizzy. I searched for it, but the line that separated asleep from awake was nowhere to be found, and the line that kept me sane was fading fast. I was losing it and I knew it. I was scared.

  Pull yourself together, I told myself. Don’t get trapped by your mind.

  Wait a minute! I remember those words. They were Michael’s. Or were they mine?

  “Wake up! Go to sleep! Do something! Just don’t lose it,” I uttered aloud. “Michael warned me about this. Yes! Michael! Right! Think! What else did Michael say?”

  You have been shown all you need to know.

  Who said that? What did it mean? All I need to know to do what? I still had no gigs, no money, and, if I didn’t soon pay my rent, I’d have no place to live. My impending situation caused reality to creep in. That was a feeling I could handle. As if drowning in the sea, I grasped for that piece of reality like a Life preserver. I missed. Instead, I was drowning in the depths of my mind.

  I tried hard to make sense out of any of it, but I couldn’t even get myself off the couch. It was hard to believe that just a few moments earlier I was filled with emotion and tears, and now I was scared and depressed. I tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t.

  Maybe I am asleep. Wait a minute, have I been asleep all along? I just sat down to practice, right?

  I shook my head again and struggled to get up. In the process, I accidentally plucked a string on my bass guitar. With the bass lying in my lap, the sound reverberated through my body triggering a familiar feeling. I was starting to regain
some composure.

  I thought about Music. The thought of her caused me to relax a bit more. I focused harder, trying to see if I could reclaim more of my mind. It worked. I could remember part of my vision and vow to help keep her alive, but I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to do it.

  Remember! You can do it, I told myself. Try harder.

  I lay there thinking hard enough to make my head hurt when I heard Michael’s voice, one more time.

  Try easy, my friend. Try easy.

  CODA

  Back to the Beginning

  What is more dangerous to a person: success or failure?

  Life has a way of repeating itself. It also seems to go by much faster as one gets older. It’s been nearly five years since I pushed that shopping cart, and even though I can sometimes hear his voice in my head and can still recall every experience like it happened yesterday, I haven’t seen Michael since that day. Well, actually, I’m not so sure about that.

  Last summer, I was invited to play a benefit concert at Carnegie Hall in New York City, which was a thrill, to say the least. While playing, I thought I saw a familiar face sitting in the balcony. I felt him more than I saw him. Maybe I just wanted it to be him.

  The balcony at that theater is too far away to clearly see anyone’s face, but when he winked at me, I was pretty sure that it was him. There was an unmistakable sparkle that I recognized. As far as I know, he didn’t leave a note or try to make contact with me in any other way. It would be good to see him again, but I don’t expect to, though I do continue to think and dream about him. Somehow I feel that he is somewhere close, watching.

  Much has changed in the last five years, and because of Michael, my Life is continually changing for the better. My relationship with Music is allowing me to play better than ever and everyone can tell. It took me a while, but now I think I understand what it meant when I was told that I needed to stop playing the instrument. These days, even though I’m not yet consistent, I do my best to play Music instead of the bass.

  I’ve become a regular member of Jonell’s band and continue to play with The Cliffnotes when time allows. I feel fortunate that staying busy and keeping my head above water is no longer a struggle.

  Recently, I heard about a bluegrass musician who is forming a jazz band to perform a few songs on a television show. He heard about me through a mutual friend and wants me to contact him. I’m not sure if my style will work with his. My taste for bluegrass hasn’t fully developed yet, but since he’s putting together a jazz band, I may give him a call.

  Being recognized and sought out by local musicians has done a lot for my self esteem. When the local Music Society awarded me the honor of Nashville Bass Player of the Year, it came as a surprise. The second time, even though I sort of expected it, was still a great honor and has led to other opportunities.

  The recognition of my peers makes me feel wonderful, and I appreciate all of it, but I’m always sure to keep myself in check. “What is more dangerous to a person: success or failure?” Michael once asked me. I know people who have been hurt on both sides of that fence. A few acquaintances of mine were almost unrecognizable after they had achieved success. They turned into people I never would’ve chosen as friends. A few others gave up after just a few failures, allowing their lifelong dreams to dissipate. I decided to do my best not to fall into either of those categories.

  I’m now also being asked by Music stores and colleges to teach master classes and clinics. I don’t consider myself a master of anything, nor do I have much class, but even though I never attended college, I guess I do have a few things to offer.

  People repeatedly ask me which Music schools I’ve attended. Michael’s School of Music and Life, I’m always tempted to say, but never have. I haven’t told many people about my experiences with him. Even my girlfriend hasn’t heard the whole story. I am always willing to share the lessons learned but rarely do I tell anyone where I learned them.

  Who would believe me anyway? I mean, I never found out who Michael really was or where he came from. The more time goes by, the more I start to think that maybe, just maybe, he came from my imagination, from some unused portion of my mind, where he’s now gone back to live again. I can still hear him knocking around in there much of the time. Like I said, it’s as if he’s constantly rearranging the furniture.

  I think about all of them a lot: Michael, Uncle Clyde, Sam, and Isis. Why were these bizarre people sent to me? Or was I sent to them? Either way, the short time we spent together brought me further along the path of Music than I ever could’ve imagined.

  You see to me, they are Music. It was made clear to me that Music is related to everything, especially nature and language, but in order to speak it naturally, I had to first make myself a part of it. Music herself told me that, and now that I understand what she was talking about, I can fully appreciate the lyric, “I once was lost, but now am found.”

  Now regarding Isis: I don’t know which was stranger— her or her information. Anyway, it’s taken me nearly five years, but now I can clearly see the part numbers play in Music. All Music can be broken down into numbers, and since Music and Life are the same, I guess that Life is numbers too. I once heard someone say that all of Life could be broken down into a mathematical equation. That’s too much math for me, but I guess anything is possible. I do know that Nashville musicians have figured out a way to read and write Music without using letters at all. They call it the Nashville Number System.

  Sam and I are now constant companions. He’s the only one with whom I can share Michael stories. We hang out together and help each other assimilate all that we’re still learning. Although I’ve progressed enough to be able to show him a few things, Sam still does most of the teaching.

  Uncle Clyde died a few years ago. At least that’s what I think happened. It made me think about a saying I once heard Michael use. It had something to do with a library being lost every time an elderly person dies. That definitely applies to Clyde. I know that I’d only gotten a glimpse of the knowledge inside his mind.

  I used to visit him regularly until one day he and his few belongings were gone. When I asked people in the area about him, no one seemed to know who I was talking about. A few people said they remembered something about a car accident. Maybe it was the one I witnessed; the one where Michael and Clyde’s help brought a man back to Life. I seemed to be the only one who had a clear recollection of the man who lived under the bridge. That was strange, but there was something more bizarre than that.

  When I went to visit Clyde for the last time, there was nothing left under the bridge except his harmonica. It was sitting there out in the open, apparently waiting for me. I was surprised that no one had taken it. Michael would’ve said that Clyde left it for me, and I’m sure that Clyde would’ve wanted me to have it. So I took it. I was sad that day.

  The most peculiar part of the story lies in the fact that when I picked up his harp, I could play it. When I first touched it, I knew I could play it, so I did. Right then and there, all by myself, I played. When I returned home and took out Clyde’s instrument, the feeling wasn’t there, so I didn’t attempt to play it again and haven’t since. I know that I’ll regain the feeling when the time is right.

  A similar thing happened with Isis. After getting a better handle on what she had talked about, I went back to the bookstore to ask her more questions. To my surprise, there were no signs of her anywhere in the store. Even her table was gone. The sales clerk told me that they didn’t offer gift-wrapping and never had. Feeling unsure of myself, I didn’t ask if Isis had ever worked there.

  When I returned to my car there was a blank card stuck under the left windshield wiper. When I pulled the card out and flipped it over, I was shocked. There was nothing on it but a handwritten circle. The number zero.

  I was bewildered. I wandered all around the parking lot looking for Isis. She couldn’t have gotten far. I listened for the jingle of her bells. There was nothing. I started to go back in
to the store to ask more questions, but something told me to just let it be.

  Tired, dazed, and confused, I got in the car. As I cranked the engine, a song by the Beatles just happened to be playing on the radio. Paul McCartney’s lyrics eased my mind as his soothing voice filled the air: “And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be.”

  I did just that. And I keep that card in my wallet at all times.

  Believe it or not, I’ve also kept in touch with the red shouldered hawk. Or maybe it’s he who has kept in touch with me. He’s chosen to follow me since I moved to the woods west of town. The nest he shares with his bride is just a short walk from my log cabin. Whenever I get that certain feeling, I go outside and he’s usually sitting there on a low limb. I just watch him stare at me, tilting his head from side to side. He acts as if he has something to tell me, or maybe he’s just checking up on me. Although I try, I haven’t gotten him to land on my arm yet. Maybe one day.