Lovingly, I recalled this show tonight, as I walked toward DL's home nestled by a large cedar tree. I trailed my son whose guitar strap always trailed him in the dirt. Inside, two fiddles swung up and down, desiring "Soldier's Joy" reunion, desiring the pronouncement of war victory, war return, dancing cues, partner held, peace reigning upon the soldier's return home. An old tune of weighty- turned-jubilant times.
My shoulders started to relax.
I pushed my way inside the oval-framed door. Heard my fiddle friend's familiar laugh. Heard the Teacher encourage. Heard my son speak.
I could stop. Stop. Stop. It was truly enough.
Yet more was offered, and I brought an empty basket. And a mandolin. And a son. And one of my dearest oldest girlfriends was learning the fiddle in the lesson before us. She decided to stay, and we all sat in a circle. Cats around our feet. A dimmed light. A peacefulness and a brimming happiness overtook us.
Our son said to close our eyes while playing "Cripple Creek." And, we did, laughing at first, then removed by sound and seal, removed from everything but fingers and notes, and then opening to restoration in one completed moment.
Our Teacher, DL, promotes such goodness. My son is healed while there, highly encouraged, happy. The finest therapy money can purchase. I am also healed. My friend once said that she is too.
When I think of the survivors on Lost, I remember that they too had such moments within a few discovered safe places, with people whom they could share such beneficent exchange. Darkness surrounding yet light splaying.
Grace, grow; spread; illuminate to rescue all.
Cody at Dierik's house one day.