A radical reversal will never happen so I sit in radical nothingness counting my breaths. Meditation (zazen) seems like the right thing to do, to offer to the world.
Sunday morning I awake to blue skies for the first time in days. The rain has left the skies.
Shower, coffee, stretching and out the door. The streets are empty, few cars, no people, all is still except for the birds. The birds litter the streets and sidewalks, they mull around in groups. Today even the birds don’t want to be in the sky.
I stop to buy coffee and the place is empty, one girl behind the counter woken out of her daydream by me asking for a dark roast.
I drive.
Music sounds better today. The melodies are healing. Art serves, I will never stop saying this.
Baptism by fire; if you didn't believe that day you never will.
The Sunday following that day, I stood in front of a congregation with a guitar in my arms and I played. In times of war send the musicians in first. The look on the congregation's faces were blank, numb without hope. The music affected all of us. It gave us back our breath.
Music never sounded the same as it did that morning. We choked back the tears as we played. We gave each other hugs between songs, we bowed down.
A radical reversal will never happen, we must live with this.
