Timo tries to control
the upturn of his lips when he is called to the mound. He tries to give the impression it’s no big
deal that the coach is handing the ball to him, of all the boys on the
team. It’s rare, but it has happened
more than once. He is a natural with a ball, any kind of ball that requires
rhythm in the energy forced against it, which in athletics is pretty much any
kind of ball. He’s pretty natural, and he likes it. But I don’t think he loves it. There is a vast span of space between like
and love. This old world is hard on
nine-year-old boys if they don’t love balls.
So he plays with the rest of the gang, pitching and dribbling and
kicking balls.
But when he’s alone, in his safe place, with a set of headphones
on and a pair of drumsticks in his hands, his pitch is passionate and
impeccable. He catches the pulse of the
earth and puts it into triple time, with a kick in the proper spot and a tap of
the cymbal to keep the spinners awake. He
is wholly in his element. And his pitch
is perfect.
From his car seat behind me as I drove him home, back in the
days when his mama was a med student and his dad was at the U, when I tended
him almost daily…he sang before he talked. He inherited this. His Auntie Kate did the same thing. Pitch perfect, with no words, the whole
melody of Brahms’ Lullaby and other oft repeated tunes. You could hum a note from the front seat and
he would echo it from the back. Not only
the exact pitch, but with the exact timing, like if sound had a mirror he would
have it pointed right at you. He would
lay his little blonde capped head on my mother’s shoulder and hum himself to
sleep, Gram leading the way with her own sweetly comforting melodies.
In Michigan one year I remember waking up to a rhythmic thud
repeating from somewhere in the cottage.
“What is that?” I whispered to Dave, a little perturbed with the
awakening. It was so rhythmic I thought
maybe it was something mechanical in the basement. But then the beat changed up. Curious, I got up and went downstairs. Timo had his drumsticks flying like rubber
pencils against a couch pillow.
Ask any other ten-year-old who their favorite musical artist
is and they are likely to give you the name of someone on the Billboard
charts. Ask Timo and he’ll tell you his
musical hero is John Powell, the composer of several movie soundtracks. Last week when his Auntie Kate was in town
they were listening to his CD of the Frozen soundtrack, the one without words,
as they shot some baskets in the driveway.
He paused mid-shot and turned to Kate…”Listen. Hear that?
Don’t you just love it when the trumpets come in?”
For his Birthday three years ago I got him six months
worth of drum lessons. I searched for a
teacher online, and randomly found one near his house in Herriman, UT. It took some talking for the teacher to agree
to teach a seven-year-old.
“In my experience they really are not ready to pay
attention, let alone understand the concepts necessary to drum
legitimately.”
But he agreed to try it for a month or so. It’s been three years, and his teacher keeps
begging Sarah and Dave to let him put Timo in competitions. Timo sits at his drum set in the basement
with his headphones on and reads his music like his teacher has assigned
him. Roll, thump, roll, thump-thump…over
and over. (It takes a special family to
encourage a drummer.) When he is finished with his homework his reward is a set
of noise reducing headphones attached to his iPod, with one of his beloved
soundtracks flowing into his brain, his hands freely keeping time with his
drumsticks.
Who can say what time and other factors will do to this
boy. We do not get the privilege of a
glimpse into his future. But we can
imagine. I can imagine, quite
easily. Not that what I imagine is what
I would necessarily wish upon anyone.
The life of a professional musician is not an easy one, nor especially
rewarding in worldly terms. Musicians
generally work at night, at least if they are performers. They have to fight the expectation from
society that music comes to us free of charge.
Musicians spend a fortune in money for their training, a fortune in time
practicing and rehearsing, they sacrifice family and personal time to lug their
instruments and equipment to a gig then wait around until it’s time to perform,
then break it all down, lug it home, unpack it once they’re home, then fill out
a W9 tax form for $100 in pay, for which they’ll effectively get $70. Then they’ll
do it all again in another place the next night. Add to that the general
sentiment that art in any form is not considered a “real” job. I should not wish this upon him.
And yet I would not wish from him the wonder of that moment,
rare as it may be, when the stars align and the lyric fits in perfect prosody
with the music, and the instrument becomes the perfectly fueled vehicle over which
the voice hovers, hummingbird-like, fluttering as it was designed to be in the
heavens. This divine thread of music
weaves itself through the giver to the receiver…sometimes many receivers in one
space. They are all one, and the
conversation is perfectly understood. And the hand and the heart and the lungs
are synchronized. And there is a sense
of wholeness no other experience can match, except perhaps the moment a baby is
born. He is not likely to find such moments at any desk, nor on any assembly
line. I do believe it is as close to
heaven as one can be.
And yet it will not feed a nest of hungry birds, unless the
receivers will pay for it.
Alas.
I hold very still and listen when I hear my boy sing. It comes usually only when he has his
headphones over his ears and does not think about the fact that he is
singing. I love his pitch pure voice. I
pray he will find the place to plant it, where it will grow and flourish. I
pray that by the time he is grown we will have come to our senses and reward
what we receive. I pray that if he chooses to use his gift for a living, that
his drive will equal the talent. And if
he chooses to set his gifts on the second shelf while he hunts and gathers for
his family, that he will keep his instrument in a place of honor, that he will
keep himself and his instruments in tune and in good repair, and that those who
share his home and his heart will understand that this is how he speaks.
