The Phoenix

I have always liked the story about the Phoenix. The Greek mythological bird that is reborn over and over again. The idea of resurrection and second chances is one for any person to cling to, to offer hope when your emotion may be deep sorrow.

As a young American, my trials were both common and miniscule; troubles with boys, troubles with friends, troubles with paying bills on a waitress’s earnings. Troubles that were simply made, delicate and plentiful like a spray of bubbles drifting in sunlight; in their collection these troubles were a childish beauty all of their own, though I did not know it at the time.

As a middle aged American, my trials continue to be common though more complex. Now, the troubles are no longer simply made. Gone are the iridescent, perfectly shaped spheres, and are instead irregularly formed, not nearly as visible, weighing too much to ever float. They can be the hooky thorns hidden in lush greenery that stick you while you admire the blossom, or the tiny spots of mold on an otherwise perfect apple. They are illness and injury, cancer and your helplessness, the allure of bad choices, and the dull tip of a hypodermic needle. They are the untimely painful deaths we have all had: of a person, or a career, or a dream—or any other thing you can never have again.

It is standing in the ruins of what once was. Or being in an empty room where music once played.

Though the music has gone quiet, I can still hear it in other places. I hear bits of Farrenc in the soprano of birdsong out my window in g minor. I hear cellos in the low whirs of morning traffic and the rumbles of semi-trucks as they pass by. In dreams, I take deep breaths to play something beautiful, but only soot comes out. Silent and black.

Ah, but the story of the Phoenix is as comforting as any Fairy Tale. For it says only through death can redemption be had. That you can start anew.

I imagine myself smoldering, feel my feathers starting to singe, and I am happy for the sign. I cannot burn fast enough. I wait impatiently, longing to burst into flame and turn to ash. I embrace my own demise in hopes I can one day rise out of the embers, unfurl glossy wings, and calmly gaze out at a new world with wiser eyes.

Ready to sing again.

This blog is dedicated to the talented cellist and my beautiful friend, Cindy Ellis. A woman I am lucky to have made music with for nearly seven years with my beloved trio. Recently, she received difficult news about her health.

None of us can know what the future may hold, but in times like these I am reminded to be thankful for the present moment and the experiences of my past. This VIDEO is our last formal performance playing together at MacPhail Center for Music, and Cindy is magnificent! Our trio has gone silent, but her music will always be in my heart.

Extra love and thanks to Dan McIntosh, our coach during our time at MacPhail.

For related blog, read Standstill.