I wrote this last week on my Dad’s 63rd birthday.
It’s a beautiful Spring evening in the Pacific Northwest. Sunshine is penetrating my skin, eased by a gentle breeze. Bird songs fill the air.
I’m grateful to breathe in this air, grateful to see the Puget Sound through the evergreens.
I look down at my feet and see my dad’s long toes peeking through the grass. I smirk his little smirk.
Every moment in his life created this moment in mine.
My friend Veronica joins me on this sunny patch of grass. She sits down to play her guitar. After a few chords I ask, “I have my dad’s guitar here…would you play it?”
Moments later, a beautiful little Taylor 712 BR is unearthed from its case. I notice the dust on the guitar head as she tunes it with intention and care. “Man, that dust is 12 years old.” I say. “My dad is probably in that dust.”
“I’ll leave it there,” she says.
My dad, who never met Veronica, is continuing through her.
Once tuned, she plays. And plays. She brings this guitar to life – a life I have never seen before. It’s so beautiful, I capture a little clip.
This is an intersection of life and death.
Ebbing and Flowing.
Sitting quietly, then exploding.
Just like a Volcano.
Nourishing so much life before it erupts.
Burning, devastating, destroying that same life.
Cleaning the slate for new life to begin.