The Budding Self

If I could only see myself the way I see my garden…   In its fledgling flax and parched penstemon I see graceful limbs and bold blossoms opening to the desert sun.   In the microscopic thyme that barely survived the winter, I see a brave heart. Kneeling to...

Hear the Music

I concentrate to play each note right Pluck the base, strum the treble. Focus on the beat, one-two-three-four. Oh, but don’t forget the syncopation!   Then comes the arpeggio: Fingers move so fast they crash into each other!   And of course the words: I must...

The Silencer

I strum the guitar and sing with exuberance, all concern burnt away by the fire of my ardor.   A voice penetrates my song—needling, sharp, “That is wrong!”   All music stops. Anger sparks within: If that’s how it must be, then I won’t sing at all.   And...