Spiritual Rx

I don't know about you, but being joyful sure is hard work.

When I first started this blog in the summer, I pledged to create a post every Sunday. For the most part, I've done that. I knew December would be a challenge but I never expected to be thrown this far off course.
There are 2 main reasons, one joyous and the other heartbreaking. The latter, of course, is the Newtown shootings, now 12 days in the past but still seems like an hour ago.
The other is that I'm in a relationship with a woman who is, as they say, a "keeper". She has asked me to remain anonymous for now in the blogosphere. It is NOT Berenice Bejo, the spectacularly gorgeous lead from the movie The Artist, (which I've seen twice). No, my love is even better. 
I tend to be overly confessional, so there's a better than 50-50 chance I'll say something that will elicit a "I cannot BELIEVE you put that in a blog" reaction from her. I'll say, "But sweetie...no one reads my blog." That will not persuade her. Therefore, I will delay my sonnets and romantic exhortations until she gives me the green light.
On the other end of the spectrum, I'm in a "Newtown echo" phase. Which is to say that I find myself spending less time per day thinking about the horrific events of 12/14. But a few times a day, I'll ask myself, "How can the parents of those sweet kids get through this period?" Sometimes, it's a mild echo. Other times, I'm almost obsessing over it. And of course, I never find answers. My powers of empathy do not extend far enough to include being a suddenly childless father. Even as I write these words, I freeze because, I suspect, to put myself in their shoes is just too painful for me. Yet, these parents somehow move on. As do all the other lives forever upended.
I posted on FB that I drove up to Newtown last Thursday, with my guitar and harmonicas in tow, hoping to just play some music. As I drove southwest on Rt. 15, the sunshine quickly turned to overcast skies. So quickly that I started asking myself if I could play music in a cold rain or sleet. I was already mentally chickening out. I got off 15 and onto Rt. 25, which runs through northern Fairfield County.
A side note for those not from these parts. Fairfield County is, for the most part, very wealthy. This wealth includes Newtown. As you drive in the area, you generally see wealthy colonials, stores decorated in a faux-Revolutionary War architecture, with ornately displayed business signs. It's not a Beverly Hills, new money, in your face, kind of wealth. It's more the opposite. It's a wealth that says, "We've had wealth for a long time and it's so much a part of who we are that we don't need to throw it in your face". The entire area says, "We are safe. There is no violent crime here." That's why it was that much more jarring that, as I got closer to the town center, I saw this uniquely Connecticut wealth mixed with signs of anguish and suffering. Like walking into someone's mansion, knowing that all is not well. None of this surprised me. It was essentially what I expected. But even with this knowledge, each sign that said "We love you, Charlotte" (or any other child) felt like being hit by a Floyd Mayweather right hook. For the 20th time, I again asked myself if I could do this. My answer was always the same. "You have no choice. And it won't be enough." So, northward I kept going, feeling a bit like I was driving into a hurricane.
I checked in at the police station to ask if it would be OK to do some music, After a brief wait, Carolyn, who I'm guessing is an administrator, came out and said yes, by all means. We chatted briefly and this woman, who must have been under an insane amount of stress, reached out and gave ME a hug. Which is what I was thinking of doing to her but thought it wasn't appropriate. This was the first of many signs that told me that for every sick individual with access to a weapon, there are 100 or more Carolyns in the world. People who want to do the right thing. Carolyn also gave me a contact of a woman who was organizing a concert.
I then walked a block south and looked over a makeshift memorial. 26 candles, teddy bears, toys, flowers, clothing, religious symbols, just about any symbol of love you can conjur up...all there on display. I could almost see the kids holding them. I saw 2 people looking alongside with me and started a conversation. (Side note: If we arm citizens, as the NRA and others seem to be pushing as the solution to these tragedies, I wouldn't have started a conversation for fear of offending them and getting my brains blown out for my trouble). As it turns out, Ken and Darla were wonderful people. Not only that, THEY were the ones who started the memorial, with the 26 candles. They could not believe that their initial offering had grown to include well over a hundred remembrances. Initial score: Evil, 1; Angels, 3.
I asked them if they'd be interested in any songs I could play for them. They said yes...anything. For reasons I still can't figure out, I started with the Moody Blues classic "Nights in White Satin." Maybe it was the refrain "But I love you, repeat, Oh how I love you". More likely, it was that beautiful melody, in E minor in a 6/8 meter. The lyrical connection isn't apparent to me, even now. But as a songwriter, I always trust a melody over a lyric. And in the end, it didn't matter. What mattered was that I did something...anything. In truth, I probably could have played industrial-punk-metal and it still would have been appreciated.
I followed up with the more obvious Graham Nash/CSNY "Teach Your Children". After that, I thought something holiday/kid friendly might be right. So I switched to Jingle Bell Rock, a song that, for some reason, I just can never get enough of. By this time, a few more people gathered around. After these 3 songs, my fingers were too cold to feel the strings. People wandered away. I felt like I may as well pack it in. Besides, I'll call this woman Carolyn told me about and we'll figure something out. So I've done enough for today.
To finish up the meteorological simile, I saw fewer and fewer signs as I got farther from Newtown. The storm faded away...at least for me. 
As it turns out, after 2 messages, I never did hear back from the woman Carolyn told me about. When people don't return calls, it generally pisses me off. But that didn't happen this time, because I have no idea what this woman is going through. That was lesson #1. Don't judge or assume anything. I cannot assume I know what Adam Lanza was going through either. Nor Nancy Lanza, his mother and his first victim. I don't know Adam Lanza's pathology. All I do know is that Asperger's Syndrome, which he may or may not have had, had nothing to do with it.
Which leads to lesson #2. Not only can I not judge, I also know next to nothing about the specifics of this tragedy. Therefore, maybe I'd do well to just keep my mouth shut when it comes to speculation. No one will ever know what Adam's pathology is. No one will ever know what possessed him to commit this unspeakably cruel act.  
Which takes me to lesson #3. If I can't say who's good or bad, if I can't assume facts about the case, what then CAN I do? Is it OK to have no answers? Because I surely do not. The answer to the "no answer" question is, of course, yes. I don't have answers but maybe "God", or whatever term one cares to use, does. Therefore, all I can do is let these questions go, which frees me up to look at my talents and skills as a way of providing comfort, knowing fully well that I can sing my heart out and it won't bring back the 18 sweet souls, nor the 8 beautiful souls who died just because they felt called to teach or help children. Nor Nancy Lanza, the 27th soul that's often forgotten. Someone who just tried to do her best in an impossible situation. A chemist who unwittingly engaged in a toxic form of chemistry, that being to expose one element, a mentally unstable human being, to another element, an assault weapon, creating a toxic compound that took the lives of 27 people.
In my last blog, I got deep into politics and the nuts and bolts of what to do next. So I won't repeat it here. But in the end, there IS no spiritual Rx, if "Rx" means to make well again. Because we all know that won't happen. But that won't stop me from trying to understand, from trying to bring a smile to someone who needs it. From being goofy and silly in situations that are anything but. From the simple act of being present with someone.
Which leads to lesson #4 for me. The next Adam Lanza could be someone I know. A person who is a medical and sociological enigma. Such enigmas should not own guns.  Therefore, get off my ass, fight the NRA and it's almost comical solution of arming schools. I suspect Wayne LaPierre knows this won't help. But, after all, he has a business to run. We need laws to make sure this particular toxic combination will never, ever, happen again.
And finally, lesson #5, I will try to pay attention to people, places, and things. I will try to slow down my mental NASCAR. All these issues that race around my head at 200 mph. I will try to shut out the myriad distractions. I already got rid of my TV years ago. I try to avoid anything that's mentally and spiritually toxic. I don't avoid it all, to be sure, but I DO know it's in my best interest to keep this up. Only with focus and clarity can I do whatever work I'm put on this earth to do.

The good, the bad, the ugly. This holiday season has had it all, on the most extreme level.

Next week, If I know myself, I'll be blogging about something silly and inane. I could use a good dose of inanity right about now.

To all of you who've read these blogs, or are doing so for the first time, a heartfelt thank you. I wish you peace.

...gp