Numbers

A few numbers that have been bothering me lately:

0

2

3

163 

1,125

74

1,130

614

16 

2,049

2016
62,719,568 

24 

76 

365 

755 

Some of those are more obvious than others but all will go unexplained. I could go on; as bad as 74 is don't even get me started on 2,400,000. They look silly though, they all look silly. They're missing percents, dashes, colons. They're bare and seemingly random. 

Look at what happens when I smoosh them all together:

02316311257411306141620492016627195682476365755

Look at what happens when I scramble that:

01664162295631657824704940127552113061271636513

Look at what happens when I acknowledge the reality of school and what will be its importance in my life:

0166162956316578247049401275521130612163655111

Look at what happens when I realize what I am always in control of:

016162956165782470490127552136121636551

Look at what happens when I remind myself that we don't choose the hands we're dealt:

09561657247040125221635

Look at what happens when I'm reminded that, for better or for worse, time will always pass:

095572401251

Look at what happens to when I realize the power I have to solve my problems:

0557

Look at what happens when I realize the power we have to solve our problems:

0

Now that's a bit more manageable, isn't it?

I don't think zero will stop bothering me any time soon. I don' think I mind. 

What are your numbers? Your digits? What might you need to be reminded of? 

From the Front of a Funeral

This past Saturday I attended a funeral. I sat in the front of a room full of strangers and played broken hymns for those with the burden of a loss greater than I can imagine. The hymns were not broken poetically. Chords clashed and fourths fell on thirds, bells pointed towards the ground and flats were forgotten. A marching band would not usually play at a baptist funeral, but on Saturday, we did. We played at the funeral of a former bandmate and I cried. I cried a lot.

I didn't know Aaron Bennett very well, he was a friendly face in the halls and he was one of the cool kids in band, he was light-hearted, and his death hit me like a bat. 

When I arrived, a few of my bandmates were already waiting outside. We waited for our instructor, who arrived a few minutes later, and who told us it was okay to head on in. We walked in and were directed to our section. The church was plain, consisting of only pews, a few modest windows, and an elevated area in the front, where speeches would be given, and where we would play. I sat down, prepared my instrument, and watched as people trickled in. We were in the front of the church facing the family members and friends who were mourning. I could not see Aaron, only the faces of those who did. 

I think about death often, about mine, about the deaths of those I love, not in a morbid way but as a reminder of our temporary nature. I don't fear death, I accept it with the seriousness it deserves, and hope I am prepared to face my own mortality. With this, I walked in feeling prepared to face the cruel reality of Aaron's death, and I was. Death is natural and it will come. I hope Aaron knew that, and I hope that in whatever way he exists, whether that be through a god or otherwise, that Aaron is at peace now. Fortunately, this is not what came. Instead, I was bombarded by realities I had never accounted for. Instead, I was humbled by the complexities that I live amongst. I was not prepared. I was not prepared for the overwhelming sensations of grief and hurt thrust upon me by the pleading screams of a mournful mother or a lost friend. I was not prepared to be thanked. I was not prepared to watch grown men cry or to watch babies be baffled by what they could not understand but I did. I was not prepared to contemplate the families of the 3,000 dead due to gun violence in Chicago over the past year and I pondered. I was not prepared for a room full of people lending their hurt, but I graciously accepted.

I cried when Nigel cried. 

I cried when the gentleman in the nice gray suit cried, when he made a mark in my memory forever, with his agony, with his contorted face, with his nice gray suit.

I cried when Aaron's mother was carried, when she literally could no longer stand, when she weeped and screamed quietly, and when I imagined my mother. 

I cried and I reminded myself how much I love you all, how much I love everyone, and how much pain a bullet can really inflict. 

I cried and I cried, and then I smiled, and then I cried.

Remember what it looks like from the front of a funeral, and remember that we are all in this together. 

Turn Off the Lights When You Talk

Turn Off the Lights When You Talk 

Speak with your eyes shut and your mind open. 

When it’s dark, it’s hard to feel vulnerable. Let words spill and let them spill fast. Let our minds not be crowded by the misconceptions, the illusions, of the light. Let us not be fooled by smiling faces, and instead hear the cracks in bellowing voices. Let us bask in the bliss that is being totally, unapologetically, and supremely unaware of the brighter-than-life lights, lights that seek to crowd our pure, simple thoughts. Let tears spill from our eyes like words out of minds, and let us be fragile, lost in darkness, in our tired, worn thoughts. Let listeners just listen, and be lost in the darkness, in the tired, worn-by-somebody-else thoughts of someone they trust to be with in the dark, if only for that moment. When it’s dark you are most vulnerable. 

Lose time to pause, and play in the sprawling darkness instead. Let listeners become listers of their complexities and let us not forget what we say in the dark. Allow words to mix with dreams and reactions to be lost with them. Let light come, and when it does, when it pours in like molasses, and seeps through the cracks, when you first make eye contact with whom you have shared what you have in the dark, remember. Remember that they were there, in the dark, listening to your dark-room secrets, and sharing theirs too. Remember that they are their dark-room words, their dark-room secrets, and your dark-room confidant. Breathe easy knowing your burdens are now not solely your own. They are held in the living, breathing, dark-room mind of a person you trusted, if only for the moment. 

Play nothing safe, let words spill, and let you dark-room mind speak. Nothing is permanent, so turn the lights off.