With my passions combined…

I recently was asked to play guitar and sing with a small prayer group that gets together once a week. For years my guitar has accumulated dust as has my ability to play it. After digging the old girl out, though, I discovered that the passion is still alive down in there somewhere. The skill has certainly oxidized a bit after so much time on the shelf while I pursue my career in IT and balance that with growing my family. Now, it has taken a depressing amount of labor to haul out the scales and progressions and so on, but picking up new songs has emerged more quickly than I expected. Also, I have noticed that my ear for the sound has matured. The nuance and quiet in music has become more interesting. Now, all of this great and I would likely be very happy with just the renewal of interest in playing and singing good songs. However, an unexpected piece has come into the picture.

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Back in the Saddle

After many months (seven, I believe), I now return with a renewed vision and set of goals. As a gesture of thanks for joining me, I have decided to include a short retelling of an anecdote regarding the definition of power. I hope you enjoy it. In coming days I plan to focus my writing on a common thread, but for now I want to get the ball rolling the best way I know how; humorously.

Hand of the Master

The Mississippi sun glinted bright on the point of the pick axe as Jimmy’s massive arms plunged the blade deep into the earth just in front of his feet. One would be tempted to be impressed by how casually Jimmy handled the tool until one realized that he had dug ditches up and down the Delta for over twenty years. Shoulder to shoulder with Davis – his ‘prentice as he he called him – Jimmy stared into the dirt as he had day after day with nothing in particular on his mind. His life was one of blissful simplicity. He would wake up and eat breakfast – consisting of plain oats and whatever beer could be salvaged out of the warm bottles from the previous night – before shuffling down the road to the foreman’s house to pile into the work truck. He would then dig ditches until the sun gave out and eventually go home to cold beer and a warm bed just to start it all over the next day. This was his routine and it occurred with few variations. Until today.

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