THE TRANSFORMATION
written by my 13-year old daughter (8th grade school project)
“Daddy? What are you doing up?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my
nine-year-old eyes.
No answer. Just the same rhythmic clackity-clack of keyboard keys that
disturbed my slumber in the first place. His eyes, glued to the monitor
positioned against the window, didn’t even flicker in my direction. His gaze
focused centrally on two things: the odd, colored lines leaping across the
screen in front of him, and the mahogany brown guitar cradled in his pale hands.
Occasionally he pressed the space button, strummed a few melodic chords on the
guitar, pressed the space button again, adjusted his large, black headphones. I
called his name once more, and still there was no response.
I glanced at the clock. 2 AM. Why hasn’t he gone to sleep yet?
Clearing my throat, I gently tapped him on the shoulder. He seemed a great big,
clueless animal, blinking once, twice, three times, before finally whirling
around to notice his nine-year-old daughter standing beside him.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered wearily, eyelids drooping, creases forming at
the corners of his mouth as he smiled. “What are you doing up so late?” Just
what I was about to ask. Scratching my head, I asked, “What are you doing?”
He swiveled his chair back around to face the monitor before answering, “I’m
recording something. Just go back to sleep.” I opened my mouth to protest, but
he slipped on his headphones again and was immediately entranced by the whirring
lines on the monitor. Sighing softly, I trudged back up the stairs, clambered
into my bed, and lay away for almost an hour thinking, Why should he be
playing the guitar until 2 in the morning? Is it really that interesting?
See, the thing is, for my dad, the answer to the second question is yes:
guitar is really that interesting for him. I’ve always had a hard time
understanding. Even now, when my 42-year-old hunches over his Godin guitar with
three other middle aged men, plucking those strings over and over again, I
haven’t understood.
Until yesterday, when my dad and his band decided to play at one of their
band member’s wedding shower.
Why am I even here? I brooded gloomily over my
icy potato salad. Teeth chattering, I rubbed my hands together furiously, trying
to stay warm. Sheesh, it must be 30 degrees out here! There was a rhythmic
whirring sound as two tall, lanky young men rolled hefty equipment across our
friend’s patio. My dad quietly conversed with a few of the men, helping them
with the multiple cords and wires scattered all over the place. Within moments,
the band Evolve was ready to play as my dad slid his black guitar strap around
his shoulder. Preceding a short introduction, the band played their first chord,
my eyes fixed solely on my dad.
And I saw it. Something I like to call the Transformation.
He looks somewhat normal just before the start of the song. But as the
strings are strummed, and the sweet melodic float through the air, the
Transformation begins. The skin of his face slowly loses color. The natural rosy
color, most apparent in his cheeks, appears to be drained down to a ghostly
white. Naturally youthful in walk, the light, bouncy gait in his step
disappeared as his feet seemed to solidly glue to the concrete patio. His
shoulders hunch up tight, almost touching his ears, his body completely closing
in on itself. The life and optimism in his pure blue eyes seems to have left the
world.
But, as I look closer, I can see it had never left at all.
It’s true; the life may have left his body to be nothing but mechanical, an
empty shell. But really, that youth has simply flowed into the guitar adorned
about his neck. The Godine guitar seems to breathe on its own, swaying to the
beat of the songs on its own time. Every chord strummed, every note plucked out,
is being sung from my father’s heart into the heart of the guitar. As my feet
touch the ground, I can feel the bass’s vibrations tickle my toes, until the
vibrations of the guitar match the vibrations of the center of the Earth. They
resonate together, synthesizing the only music tying in with the heart and core
of the Earth.
I discovered something that evening up in blustery, gray Corona. Just as
people meditate to get in touch with themselves and with the Earth, so does my
dad become fully realized when he is in touch with his music. Without his music,
without his guitar, my dad’s body literally would be nothing more than an empty
shell with a torn soul. His music is half of what he is, and when they unite,
they become whole. I believe my dad is wiser than any of us. Because he seems to
be one of the few people who understands that if you want to find yourself, you
need to let go and simply be.
