Sitting on a stool in Doc's Bar, waiting my turn to play guitar ... or join someone who already is ... I stare around the room at people I've become very fond of and ... I'm wondering how the new songs I'm bringing are going to be received.
Truthfully, none of us care, because we're bringing the best of what we've got and sharing.
It's cheaper than therapy.
Then Monty Parks does an incredible song he wrote about Detroit where he was raised and melancholy drips from his guitar strings.
Thomas Oliver follows with a striped down, slowed down version of "Hey, Hey Baby ... I want to know ..." and it's the best damn version I've ever heard ... with Chip Zulliger playing a killer lead.
And God Herself decides to stick her head in and listen as Greg Bell stares at the Post-it note on the side of his guitar.
And Scotty beams me up.
The back door's open and the Ocean's loudly singing in the distance.
Warm, salt air floods inside the back room with God.
Turning in my chair to stare outside and welcome our guests ... I don't hear anything for the longest time.
I've fallen into some Vortex of Salty Sea and Holiness.
"Hey," God says.
Unable to speak, I nod.
The propped open door is filled with darkness though in the distance are lights from tiny apartments in an alley.
I am baptized in salt air ... the aroma filling my lungs ... the stillness of the island on a lazy night shouting quiet.
Clark Byron finishes singing "Southern Nights" and Scotty beams me back down because it's my turn.
Reclaiming my focus, Lona Crask stares at me wondering what I'm bringing.
She's my partner at a weekly Nursing Home gig.
And God says, "Don't you love it?"
Hanging my head, I wipe my eyes.
"Don't you love them?" She presses.
Fumbling, I strum a G chord.
"Enjoy," She concludes and vanishes.
Everyone's staring wondering what I'm going to do.
And I play ... and sing ... giving myself to them ... just as they've given themselves to me.
It's a gift when such things happen.
God Herself reminded me tonight.
