I’m back under the moon with the fire.  This time it’s Hanalei Bay, no wind, small surf.  Spotlight in the sky illumines smiles and the musicians.

I’m just on the periphery, tapping a knee, leaving the strings and chord progressions to the players.  There is the jazz musician, the songwriter – and the bagpipe player is here again with the low whistle and effortless melodies.

I try to watch their finger placements, see if I can recognize a chord with my eyes.  The ever-encouraging songwriter sees my interest and invites me in.  Three guitars?  No, no, I’m OK.  I’m loving listening.

But he doesn’t believe my words and hands me his Martin.  Goes back to his truck for another guitar, returns and tells me the chords so I can join them.

For the rest of the night I play with the musicians.  Fumble through and let my fingers ache.  I don’t mention that it’s been 10 years since I played with anyone.  That the few chords I know I taught myself from Neil Young‘s Decade songbook.  (Though these points were fairly apparent.)

This kind circle isn’t much for disclaimers.  The words are saved for other things.  The speed of sound and the vibration at which a note is moving.  How the relation of the fret board corresponds to every planet in our solar system.  The B-flat note that ripples out from the Black Hole.  How about that time in Olympia when Phish told the audience they were going to try to make their instruments emanate light waves through the speakers? Have you heard of Alexander Scriabin the mystic musician?

If there is a tribe of music lovers, these are its members.  I am with my people, though a humble initiate to the fold.  The jazz musician moves his hands along the neck of his guitar with graceful ease, ringing notes to the sea air in perfect harmony.

I could stay here in these sounds all night.

What you are comes to you.
–  Ralph Waldo Emerson

In love’s godlike breathing, there’s the innermost aspect of the universe.
–Alexander Scriabin