Grief Speak

Talking about emotions is one way to participate in the grief process. Not the only way. When I was 16 I chose to not participate in grief work. I had a good reason to be a player, but I didn't know the rules so I stayed out. Self medicating with emotions that weren't sorrow was what I knew best. Those emotions started with "Being strong" (I know that's not an emotion but it is a description of one) and extended as far as anger and its cousin resentment. Self pity was a tool. Jealousy--oh that was one I denied; not the existence of, but the use.

Writing is useful way for me to participate this time around. Not so much with the pen but banging out words with a keypad. Some of the strokes are firmer than others. The tickity tick of the strokes lets me know I'm really into something. Emotions flow out through my finger tips and I don't stop to find better words. My vocabulary is what it is and if I don't have a better word I use what I have. If the words were more than I know the writing would not be me.

Last night I heard another way to participate in grief. A young man of 15 played a guitar and I heard words I wish I wrote. In three years since the death of his father, my young friend excelled at learning guitar. His fingers move over the strings and words transform into music. Key strokes turn into letters on a screen. Words become electrical impulses which travel over lines and are heard by listeners over telephones. Neither has anything over a musician who takes emotions and transfers them through human cells, into a man-made instrument which produces a sound that is unmistakably music of recovery.

Some people did work to help this young man achieve his talent level. Guitar players are heard and watched. I took it all in. It's easy to see a creator's work in my friend. He didn't get here by himself and it took himself letting other people in to be the artist he is today. Evil did not take this talent and squander. Goodness resisted evil. Healing is possible because of the choices of people, including my friend, who had resisted evil and made music.

Watching this young man play reminded me of the note I left for Aaron in September 2004. It read--Play guitar Aaron. The world has enough business people. I had reached the point of understanding in time to let Aaron know that there is more to life than chasing the wind. Playing music, living life, sharing a talent for the enjoyment of other people is worthy.

Never accused of being a saint, Jerry Lee Lewis caught my attention last week. I found a decent CD in the 1/2 priced book store and played it repeatedly for a few days. One song in particular was pure Jerry Lee. Rocking out the Boogie Woogie on a song titled Pee Wee's place, Jerry tells the story about a bar where a four piece band plays too loud. Leading his band through the song, Jerry turns to a member in the band and says in perfect Lousianna drawl "Play that gui-Tar souahn!"

I replayed the song a dozen or more times just to hear Jerry Lee say in his language what I said in mine to my son---"Play that gui-Tar souahn!" I hope my friend hears what he needs to hear. His fingers write and speak what he needs to say. The gui-Tar is his voice.