I return to my best idea of the day so far, which is to lie face-down in the dirt and get lost in fervent repentant seeking prayer. I am truly at the end of the road and myself. Once I let go and become buried in my nothingness He comes to me—not like roaring thunder or a turbulent prairie wind, not in eagles screeching overhead, but in a Holy moment when all things subside and meld into silence. It is at this point He says, “Be still my child and let Me soothe your soul, let Me calm your disquiet—let Me show the way.” Scriptures and promises come crashing down on me in recognition of His essence and sweet purity. He is a simple God, an unassuming Savior. He is what we long for—truth, peace, and serenity. He is the All…the Ever…the One.
“You are drifting.” He speaks again, “And that is okay; as long as you keep your eyes on Me you are moving in the right direction.” I can feel Him drawing very close to me in this moment. He then kneels down beside me. One hand rests on my shoulder, and with the other He writes in the dust. This little encounter is a simple gut-check to make sure I am not wandering away but pressing in at all times no matter where I roam and what I see. I know now I am to enter in and never slip away from His Holy purpose for my existence. There is no condemnation in the moment—only a sweet fragrance of love and forgiveness.
Then it is over…
I stand up and look at the crowd around me. They simultaneously turn away and slowly dissolve as they leave the scene of my grime. I look down at my feet and have to catch my breath. There on the ground are two dust angels in the road. I head back toward the hotel with the feeling that God just wrestled me to the ground. Something important happened back there at the end of the street, and I am sure it all had to with my walk—that is when I notice I am limping.
As I evolve back to earthen reality, I reach up and feel the drool on my face that has blended with the dirt from the soil I was pressed into—this could be the very reason everyone disappeared. I find strange comfort in knowing that when I get to the hotel the clerk will remain poised as always and will not notice me, much less give me a strange look.
I cover the ground between this bewildering encounter and my hotel with no awareness of how I have made the transition. I was wrong about the clerk. As I enter the lobby and move quickly toward the stairs, I glance sideways. As expected, there she is calicoed and comatose except for her own sideways glance at my face. Like an Annie Oakley of the Hiltons, she smiles demurely and raises her hand slightly, pointing to the side of her mouth to indicate the muddened drool coming from mine. At that moment I decide I like her better without a personality. I give her a disdainful grunt and run up the stairs to my room and grab my towel and soap, retreating to the sink in the bathroom where I splash cold water on my face. As my hands slide from my forehead to my chin, it feels like an unveiling. I look into the mirror and see myself for the first time. He called me child out there on the road, and with childlike innocence I can feel myself assembling the pieces of my being—putting them together like broken and discarded toys of time. I see a bit of everyone I’ve met on this journey in my reflection, and the lines of my face are not clearly defined. They are rounded off, smoothed out, and accented by shadows and the makeup of each person’s touch on my life during this journey. This moment and His words speak of disclosure and a peaceful calm comes over me. I return to my room to wait.
I disrobe and crawl into bed completely drained and close my eyes one at a time, reversing how I began the day. My breathing becomes electric and conjures shades of unheard melodies; the ceiling fan overhead sorts out unknown rhythms from undiscovered places. I think back to what just happened and realize I like the person I just met in a broken mirror, in a second floor bathroom…at the end of an empty hall.
Platinum laced rain falls silently outside the wonder window in my room. I fade back into the dream that began dreaming me when I first set out on this mysterious journey…
An old man holding a fiddle in one hand and a dusty bow in the other appears in my dream. He leads me to a grove of trees in a meadow and motions for me to sit on the ground at the base of a large rock. He sits before me and begins to play a song that embraces all the music of the centuries—a single song, a simple song, a song of life. I watch him in silhouette as he plays. He leans into the instrument—which sounds more like a soaring lute—eyes closed, long hair gracing the edges of his face. All the rhythms of the people I met on this journey lock into one flowing and pulsating cadence. The low sun in the sky creates a halo effect along the edges. It is then that I notice his hands. They are exactly like the hands of the other men in my dreams, except this time they are not covering each other, and for the first time I can see them clearly. A long wide scar travels from the center, front and back of each hand, to the base of his fingers, interrupting and accenting their sinewy strength and delicate lines. His name is David and he sings me a story. I can see and feel it as it unfolds before me. It has a soundtrack. The music fades and his song evolves into words. From the distant background I hear muted drums in prelude…
DOKA CHIGA…DOKA CHIGA…DOKA CHIGA…
DOKA CHIGA…DOKA CHIGA…
THREE CHORDS & AN ATTITUDE
[DAVID]
DOKA CHIGA…DOKA CHIGA…DOKA CHIGA…
DOKA CHIGA…DOKA CHIGA…
“JOSEPH HAD A PROBLEM HOLDING still when he was a child. His hands were always moving. His fingers flew, probing the air, and were always clattering across things. He loved exploring the elements, mainly for their rhythm and the sound they would make when he pounded on them. His attention would fall to an odd-shaped item or a group of similar objects. From this point of childlike observance, he would further examine their shapes and resonances, finally engaging them in patterned clamor and bang. As time evolved, things became a little more organized and the objects of his deflections became more musical and specific. The rhythms tightened, fluidity developed, and cadence melded into the semblance of something almost perceptible…acceptable even.
“He was attracted to the washing machine and often could be found lying on the floor with his back pressed up tight to it while it was going through its gyrations. Because his was a big family, that old washer chugged most of the day and night. They were poor, and every night each child had to scramble to find a place to sleep. The formal sleeping spots were usually reserved for the youngest and the oldest of their cluttered coterie, bedrooms being limited to parents and newborns. A full dirty-clothes-basket was considered a score for the night and served as protection from a hard floor. So he slept and studied there, watching the cold January nights perched on top of the warm washer. As it churned in perfect tempo, he would dream in distant time signatures while looking out through the small icy window above the washer’s controls into the country night.
Gada bahchunk…Gada bahchunk…
Gada bahchunk…Gada bahchunk…
“School was extremely difficult because he was supposed to sit still. The problem was something inside his head was always moving something outside his body. He was held back and unable to move forward because of a beckoning backbeat. For him, 4/4 was a time signature he kept track of with his tapping toes, not a whole-number fraction. Classmates found him to be aloof because of his detached countenance and they found his faraway gaze disconcerting. As a result, he got into lots of scraps after school, though even his punches found a tempo.
Catunga ca chunk…Catunga ca chunk…
Catunga ca chunk…Catunga ca chunk…
“As he grew up, all this stuff started bubbling from beneath the surface and something had to give. No musical instrument was off limits to his inquiring hands and heart. He was a dotted accent waiting to happen. In the near distance was Kathleen, a waiting calm in his rising storm, watching quietly, knowing there would be a time to enter his song. She didn’t know she knew this; she was a child too. But in time, a different rhythm entered their lives as they discovered each other—drawn together as if by divine appointment, falling
in silent step on their long walks to school from their distant homes. In these almost wordless times together over the years, they grew into a deep understanding, an effortless transformation into an unspoken bond.
“Then, out of nowhere, the local Elks Club—in Joseph’s rural Americana where everyone wore a lot of blue and starched white—got a call that Duke Ellington’s band needed a place to land between gigs and pick up some extra change as they made their long way from one engagement to another. The vast plains and scrublands of his small town lay strategically in between these two points. A new tint was on its way into the local color. Because he washed the store-front windows outside the downtown Elks Club once a week (in addition to his after school cleanup duties in the card room, which doubled as the dance hall on special occasions), he got to hang around that night until the show was over. In exchange, he would lend his expertise to the late-night task of cleaning up cigarette butts, spilled drink stains, and wiping down the worn chairs and tables.
“There was a spot at the bottom of the stage riser, just to the right of the piano, that was inaccessible to the patrons, used to store the bands’ instrument cases and hide the cables. He sensed something was going to happen that night, so he reported for duty early. Minutes before the show began he curled up in the hollow of a base drum case in that darkened alcove for a close up view of what was to come. The band came out and, to his wonder, he could see up under the front-right leg of the piano directly into the face of the Duke himself. Then, out of the periphery and through the smoke, another amazing man stepped up to the microphone and was introduced as Joe Williams. Here’s where a twelve-year-old backwoods boy felt his heart stop and race simultaneously through the swelling of a deep Blues groove. There was something about these black dudes and the way they moved—the way they closed their eyes, sang, played their instruments, and set things in motion. It was, for our young hero, what you might call black magic. It was incomprehensible; it was something unimagined, yet strangely longed for. Phonic fantasies and decibel dreams emerged and then merged into his very being that night. Looking back, it was like being launched in a rocket ship as your first experience in velocity.
“Bah doom sha boomp…Bah doom sha boomp…
Bah doom sha boomp…
“This young man with an unidentified dream and a heart beating for music was discovering one of its supreme forms at an early age. A point of transformation was lodged into the deep of Joseph’s being. For many years he had done the things expected of a young man with common beginnings rather than what was in his heart—a heart that pounded with a myriad of time signatures. He crawled into a small space beneath the bandstand that night; but, he knew someday he was going to emerge from this secluded space like a butterfly out of a cocoon into something beautiful—something that would fly wide and color deep into an unfamiliar fabric beyond his comprehension. You cannot put your finger on that certain something, but you have to credit God for His abundance in giving glorious gifts of unusual abilities to the most unlikely people. For two hours at a small town Elks club, seeds were being planted that would yield a harmonic harvest to come.
“That night in the bass drum case changed everything. Kathleen noticed a difference in Joseph the next day—who now insisted on being called ‘Joe’ just like the big black man with the smoky-blue voice. Kathleen was his rock, she was home, she was always the unwavering quiet is his storm. While he was bouncing off the walls, she was holding steady in faithful countenance. It was almost as if he could only come down to Earth to land in her warm arms—arms that would hold and calm him down.
“They had always known each other. They were next-door neighbors even though their houses were over a quarter-mile apart. Kathleen was content with the smell and feel of the trees and grasses surrounding their houses, and, at nineteen, had never been more than nine miles from home. She was indeed beautiful, but her true beauty resided within—a humility and personal peace that didn’t need to be anywhere other than this quiet place. Her lithe figure, graced by long flowing honey-tinged hair, seemed to move in concert with the wind. Long eyelashes shaded and protected a steady, kind, and almost winsome look that poured forth from her delicate face. There was a gentle composure in all her movements and expressions. She was more than an occupant of this tranquil setting—she was an integral part.
“Joe, by contrast, had a nervous energy that made him appear to be moving even when he was standing still. Even though this was a time before there were rock stars, Joe looked like…a rock star. Long lean legs supporting a sinewy body—strong arms that embraced his instruments to the degree that there was no space between them when he engaged them in song. He wore his dark, shiny hair long like the natives of the local tribe. His eyes were green as the grasses of the surrounding fields and it was as if he had a switch with only two settings that he used to control them. When he was in Kathleen’s world they had the softness of brookside moss, privately inviting to those he trusted and held dear. When he was performing they darkened; they flashed and flared, darting and penetrating the depth of everything with in his field of vision. People used to joke that when Joe was playing music he stood tall even if he was in a hole. Even though they were as opposite as the east and the west, Joe and Kathleen were joined at the heart in this, the place they called home.
“They were united in the soul-building process of the growing years, sharing the simplicity of being brought up country. It was not a matter of discussion but a sense of the natural that they would always be together. They were wordless in this communication, sharing an unexplainable bond that held them together no matter where they were. A small, rolling indentation in the fields between their houses that did not quite qualify as a canyon—in those days some folks called them hollows or hollers—created the only distance between them. This one was filled with poplar and cottonwood trees. Temperatures, winds, light, and smells all changed the minute they entered the space. It was as if there were a quiet cathedral caused by an almost perfect circular mini-meadow in its very center anchored by a smooth sloping rock shaped like a huge chaise lounge for two. They would sit on the ground, lean back against its curved slope and look up through the trees at a clear sky. The mid-day sun would heat its smooth surface, and when dusk approached they would meet there and the rock kept them warm. Joe would become settled here in this private space while she was excited by the beauty and peace of it.
“They often passed the time beneath these trees, dreaming of other worlds and talking about things they wanted to experience someday. There were the big unimaginable things—private jets, cruising on a yacht, lunch with Frank Sinatra, dancing at the White House—fantasies they knew would never come true. Then there were the real wishes, the simplicity of which was alive with possibility because these dreams could come true, and that awareness filled their hearts with the excitement of anticipation.
“‘Joe,’ Kathleen would ask, her tempo almost adagio-like, the words flowing smoothly into the warm air, ‘wouldn’t it be great if we could bring all our fantasies and dreams into this place and enjoy it all here?’
“Joe’s answer, by contrast, came forth in a staccato, measured reflection. Although in direct opposition to her interpretation of their united dream, his response was in no way argumentative. It was the same dream approached from a different angle.
“‘Yeah, or how about loading all this beauty onto our private yacht and taking it with us to Rio De Janeiro for Mardi Gras and have all the great Brazilian musicians play their best music just for us in our transported meadow?’
“Then they both would grow silent, gazing skyward while resting in the shared comfort of their central theme—being together and loving how they felt lying side by side in this space. To observe their faces in these moments, it would seem as though she was in worship and he was amid creation of melodies for an unwritten song.
“Kathleen was a great baker. She often prepared white cakes, her favorite dessert, for others when
they celebrated special occasions, though no one had ever thought to bake an all-white cake for her birthday or special occasion. She dreamed of having multiple white cakes on her wedding day—their wedding day—the most special occasion she could imagine…in their tree lined meadow sanctuary.
“Joe often complained that because he was the most accomplished musician in their remote area, he provided the music for every barn raising, school dance, and harvest moon party. None of the other local musicians were willing to play for these special occasions, so he usually ended up playing them with his band. Instead of being able to dance or enjoy the party, he had to play, set up, and do the tear down for the events. As much as he loved music, Joe felt trapped, especially when it came to the proms and New Year’s Eve celebrations. He was unable to have a social life because he had to work all night while all the other kids were having a good time. He assumed that in the future he would probably be playing mostly during weekends and holidays; but that was different—it was an occupation, a calling, and a goal—and this was now.
“He dreamed that someday great musicians would play just for him at his most joyful event: the day he and Kathleen married. They laughed at the absurdity of the dreams filled with mansions and servants, but they believed the real desires of their hearts would be fulfilled someday. However, it was here as he looked up at the sky that he dreamed about leaving, while it was here that she dreamed they would settle and never leave. She had everything she ever needed when she laid here next to Joseph, and she didn’t really care about what she did not know. He was drawn into the possibilities of the unknown and wanted what he didn’t even realize he did not have. As odd as it seemed, it was this difference that tied them together and was only comprehensible to them.
“It wasn’t as if they didn’t talk about these things, because they did. Their verbal explorations existed in that space between those two dichotomies. The glue that held most of their musings in place was based on an ancient tradition followed by the local Indian tribe as part of their most sacred rituals, using the nuance of trinity as their center point.
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