Worlds Apart

Less than 24 hours ago, I was sipping coffee with friends as light snowflakes obscured a mountaintop vista of at least two states, maybe three. Calling this Appalachian palace a cabin is a bit of a misnomer. Whether cracking billiard balls in the basement, enjoying 200 channels of garbage on any of several plasma televisions, or gazing through 24 foot atrium windows at an expansive valley floor, the weekend's accommodations were luxe.

I am back at the helm of Studio Redline today, chiseling away at a smallish list of graphic design tasks and keeping a little live equation going: [5:00 pm] - [time it is currently] = [how much longer until I can get on to other things]. If you are astute, and I assume all of my readers are, you have already figured out that the post you are now absorbing was crafted during hours that should lend themselves to the day job.

Between the lines of this admission of procrastination is an emotion that is all too familiar yet somehow surprising in its intensity. No matter how relaxing, refresing, and restful a time away may be, there is never anything easy about the return to reality.

As the miles between Atlanta and me accumulated, I noticed a touch of stress melting away. With each off-ramp that faded off the edge of the rearview mirror, I smiled a little wider, my shoulders relaxed a touch more. Just like clockwork though, the tension came flooding back the moment I rounded the bend and took the sharp driveway up to our front door.

I have indulged in a fair amount of moping since returning, and I have to admit that I am draped in sweats from neck to ankle today in silent rebellion of another vacation ending. Peace and rest are commodities that can be sought this side of heaven, but like a thief in the dark, time snatches these experiences away as quickly as they are found.

So yes, I am back to the old mill, and I am not happy about it. A bright spot in this humdrum Monday is making a return to a bit of daily writing and the accompanying hope of a successful music project in the making.

I spent hours picking away on the guitar this weekend, gazing at the bare trees as I pulled thin melodies from the brass strings. The Appalachian landscape lent a generous spark of creativity (as I hoped), and I managed to scratch a few songs into my spiral maroon notebook.

One song, my favorite product of these few days, gleans from a true situation happening less than five miles from my home. I know some youth from my work at the Communicycle co-op who live in constant fear of physical violence. Several have only one parent at home, usually a mother, who often work two or three jobs to put groceries in the cabinet. One girl tells the story of a night months ago when a man broke into her apartment and performed acts of violence against her mother.

Before this harsh tragedy occurred, this young girl would put herself to sleep and her mother would return from work a few hours later. Now stricken with sharp panic and dull, persistent fear, she keeps herself up until her mother returns from the third shift. Always sleepy, she struggles to focus in school and is falling behind in her studies.

There is medicine to swallow here. This youth (and many who live in her neighborhood) never get to experience the peace that is mine on an average Monday, let alone the elated sort of joy that comes from cozying up in the sheer wonder of mountaintop luxury for a long weekend.

The outskirts of Atlanta may not offer the euphoric bliss that comes from a decadent holiday, but compared to the pain and sadness that robs peace from the daily lives of many neighbors and friends, my charmed life is a taste of heaven itself.

There is much for which we should have deep gratitude.

Here are the lyrics that came from this pondering. I intend to track this in Logic tonight and hope to have another scratch recording posted here in the next day or two.

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SING SILENTLY

v1:
Sing silently
Sing silently
'Till the bluebird mama can make it home
'Till the bluebird mama can make it home

v2:
Tread tenderly
Tread tenderly
'Till the blackbird papa can make it home
'Till the blackbird papa can make it home

Chorus:
Sing la la la
To the shadows in the room
Keep singing la la la
To the shadows in the room
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