My Time at The Music House. 


For most of this past summer I had begun meditating, sometimes just sitting, sometimes while jogging, sometimes in the backyard under the swaying shade of the Three Sisters – my name for the three, venerable forty-two year old trees that have survived rain, wind, lightning, and time, sometimes in the company of the Forest Dragon with his perpetual smoke.

I had been healing.

I had been changing.

I was trying to find peace within myself.

The death of my father left me with an aching gape of a void in the very center of me. So every day – every night and day – I would sit outside, and I let myself heal. So it was in this state of being at peace, at feeling healed that I made my decision about Marce’s offer to go up to Austin. That week was a tough week. A local musician, Bob Batey, passed away unexpectedly, rocking the local art scene to it’s very core.

His death affected me. He was a young man – and talented. And it was the cruel suddenness of it, combined with my trying to heal from my own father’s death, my finding my path, and the serendipitous timing of Marce and his offer that helped sway my choice.

And it was music.

So it stayed with me.

And I thought.

Music to fight the death.

Music to heal.

Music to mend that fence.

To be away from death, from the overwhelming grief that some of my dear friends were going through, death and grief that I was trying so hard to heal from, to be somewhere else, three old friends creating music, creating positive energy to counter the eventual decay of everything.

I decided to go.

Next: On the road, on the kit …

Author: marcwritesmoorewords

Wordsmith, Poet, Drummer, Foodie. Fantasy geek. Movie lover. Theater fan. Lover of good drink, great conversation and women who enjoy both. Striving for balance and clarity and humor as I manage my 5th grade students, my ADHD, my Major Depression, and my recently-widowed mother.

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