Jazz

I am an Americana fan,

That music that is often centered around an acoustic guitar, frequently a Martin.

Elements of country, bluegrass, blues, folk, celtic all blend together.

Augmented by any conceivable combination of

steel guitar,

dobro,

piano,

accordion,

Hammond B3,

kazoo,

banjo,

mandolin,

electric bass,

stand-up bass,

tuba,

trombone,

trumpet,

saxophone,

drums,

congas,

and/or a washboard.

I love it,

But when I listen to it, part of me can lean into it thinking,

“I could be doing that.

Why didn’t I apply myself?

I am lazy,

I was afraid to fail.

Oh well,

At least these folks know how to play!”

And I lean in and just try to enjoy this music that I love.

And then there are all the tales of loss

Of love,

Of People,

Damages from the storms and wild fires,

And of injustices everywhere,

And I feel all that pain on a personal and universal level.

Sometimes I switch over to the jazz station.

The range is wide.

The Count, Coltrane, Chick Corea and Jaco.

I know that I could never have learned enough to touch this stuff.

Oddly, I feel free.

I leave my self-critical self at the door of this world of sound.

I feel no pain.

I just enjoy it for what it is.

It has nothing to do with me,

But everything to do with me.

It transports away from myself

and frees me.

I look at the autumn leaves but don’t envy them for their beauty.

I don’t ask them to wipe out all the pain in my life or the world.

I just enjoy them.

It is not all about me,

But it is all there for me to enjoy.