Yesterday, I had a wonderful chance to talk with my niece, Whitt, about this and a lot more and although the topics were pretty eclectic, it seemed a few were determined to stay with me long into the arms of Morpheus. So I wanted to put pen and ink to paper, so to speak, so that I could go back and picture one of the most beautiful and vivid of dreams I've had in a long, long time.
Whitt was standing on the porch of Grandpa's boathouse conducting the music of a most magnificent storm of her own making. She directed the grandeur of the lightning across the night sky, the show of the powerful percussion in the thunder, the force of the rain pounding on the roof and flowing off the porch onto the dock and lake beyond. The energy of the wind bending the limbs, leaves, ferns and grasses. The air was filled with the sound of the glory of life at it's most rebellious. Nothing was still, or calm, or gentle. The majestic music was life at it's most chaotic in a maelstrom of disquiet.
As the storm seemingly swung out of control around her, Whitt lowered her arms and slowly walked through the storm down to the dock with her mandolin in hand.
She sat down in one of the Adirondack chairs that perched on the edged of the water and very quietly and gently, she began to play. At first, only a note or two could be heard, but as if the storm suddenly realized there was a rival to it's greatness, it began to try dueling with the music Whitt brought forth from her instrument, but Whitt refused to duel. Her mandolin slowly tamed the storm until it gentled and followed her lead. The gentle beat of the rain slowed as if not to miss it's cue, the strings of the wind flowed in and around to move the music where Whitt's Mandolin wanted it to go. The cymbals stepped back into the midst of the the orchestra to become a part of something bigger and more beautiful than it's shrill sound could ever be on it's own.
The last notes played as the clouds drifted off over the mountains and the sun rose over the lake.
Restrengthened and re-inspired.