I spent my formative years listening to records, growing my hair and playing my sister’s tennis racket as if it were a Rickenbacker. I went to sleep with a transistor under my pillow, listening to The Beatles and one-hit wonders.
Graduating to underground FM, I bought drumsticks and played along to LPs, beating the stuffing out of an old Barcalounger in the basement. To save the rest of the furniture, my parents bought me a conga drum. I’d jam with a friend for hours, burning incense into the night. When I left for college, the conga came too. Imagine my parents’ relief.
I formed a band, performed in church basements and student clubs, and experienced some of the most joyful moments of my life playing with these guys. They dropped out after freshman year but I stayed, focusing on my writing and working with world-class poets. I also upgraded my conga and played in a duo for the next five years.
I eventually got a real job, a masters degree, and an acoustic six-string. I practiced every spare minute, wrote songs and performed at open mics. My midlife crisis was a Telecaster, not a sports car. I never forgot those transcendent moments performing with others when everything clicked, but the compulsion to play faded as the demands of family and career took center stage. Decades passed.
A cancer diagnosis, though, has a way of clarifying things.
On a trip to the Southwest, after successful surgery, my wife and I came upon a 360ﾟvista with nothing but the Grand Canyon, ravens and wind. Sitting down to meditate, it hit me like never before: Life is fragile, too short to postpone dreams — not the most original thought, but I decided then and there to leave my job and pursue my passion.
Prior to Leaving is the first fruit of my labor of love. I hope you enjoy it!