Growing up in the ’70s, music was everything.
Vinyl on the turntable, rock and roll on the radio, a little country
and a lot of funk in the mix.
Volume wasn’t just part of the experience—it was the experience.
Loud enough to rattle the windows, loud enough to be heard over
the glass-packed mufflers I bolted onto my hot rod.
For music and mufflers, the rule was simple: the louder, the better.
These days, I find myself drawn to quieter songs—the soft hum of
bumblebee wings drifting from blossom to blossom in my wife’s pink
begonias, the rhythmic pulse of katydids and crickets, the chatter of
chipmunks, the distant calls of cardinals and mourning doves.
I listen in the cool air of early morning or in that gentle pause
before dark.
The midday sun just makes me squint and rub my temples.
From the back porch, I watch sunlight dance through the high
canopy of old oaks and sugar maples. I think about youth—how
I miss it, how often I revisit it with friends.
Back then, life was all speed and volume. The soundtrack cranked
up to drown out my fears so I could keep charging toward the next
thing, never stopping long enough to experience and fully embrace
the beauty of where I was.
Now, I like to believe the universe is shaping my years into a kind
of “wisdom potpourri.”
That every trial, every stumble, every joy and heartbreak is part
of a mysterious, elegant equation:
You had to endure this so you could see that, which would help
you do this—for them—so they can see it too.
Like a custom life app that doles out advice that is rooted in
first-hand wins and losses, ready for anyone who happens
to stumble into my orbit. Then maybe they can enjoy the
everyday more, be present more.
I hope that’s true.
Until then, I’ll sit in the quiet, just me and the bumblebees—
listening, and trusting that when my calling arrives, I’ll hear it.
