Tuning your Instrument


After a concert, a famous cellist was approached by an audience member. We’ll call him Peter.

Peter said to the cellist, “I’d give my life to be able to play like that!” 



The cellist replied, “I did”.



The cellist knew from an early age that to master the playing of his instrument, he had to practice. And practice specifically and consistently, every day, for decades. He knew that if he did that, maybe, just maybe, he could give voice to through the genius that lay within himself through the music of Mozart, Brahms and Beethoven. 

As human beings, we don’t have an instrument made of wood, or brass or a combination of hammers and strings. But we do have an instrument! It’s us – our voices, our minds, our bodies and our spirits. And like the cellist, if we want to be able to give voice to the genius within us, to allow the music of our hopes and dreams for ourselves and all of humanity humanity to shine - we have to practice with, and tune our instruments specifically and consistently.

What are you willing to practice on a daily basis to bring the very best of who you are to the world?

Another love poem - though this one is a bit edgier. Read and enjoy.

SEQUOIA 

A controlled burn—also known as back burning—clears everything in its path.

When wisely calculated, it can renew all through the brilliant ferocity of fire.

Trees dancing flaming insanity light up the night sky.

Everything old on the forest floor becomes fuel

for the carefree wanderlust of red and orange.

The night sky screams as billows of smoke set sail,

gray-black waves exhaling into the moon’s starlight ocean,

clouds jostling to hold their own against the hot-faced intruder.

*

Though I did not calculate well the burning that brought you to me

I did sniff the winds of change and following a wild impulse,

drew a ragged breath, lit a match, and threw it down.

Another match I threw, not caring what took fire.

Ragged breath turned to scorched sound,

white heat laying waste the shell of all

patient waiting, proper praying, false illuminating.

No pretty contemplation this,

only pure agony shrieking light.

Gasping on hands and knees, I choke and let go,

 vomiting strangled metaphors of freedom and beauty

and what it means to be at peace in this world.

Gutturally chanting, my voice erupts volcanic, demanding

that what was torn from me like stitches from a still raw wound be returned.

How it comes I care not.

But I swear by all that is wretched and holy that I will light the sky up

this time with my flesh and bone if the earth of my life does not

quake awake to pure flowering green

NOW.

Tongue burning, eyebrows singed, naked skin blistering,

I listen as the wind blows still.

What pain, age, and this wild night have not burned from me crackles and is gone.

Lying naked and alone, I sleep

and dream of you.

*

A controlled burn—also known as back burning—clears everything in its path.

When wisely calculated it can renew all through the brilliant ferocity of fire.

It is said that some seeds, like the seed of the great Sequoia,

remain dormant until broken down by fire.

This to tell you that such burning is purposeful.

This to tell you that grace exists.

Published in 'The Furious Gazelle' 06/14/2014