Write My Name Across the Sky

by Barbara O'Neal

Home. It’s a word as fraught as any I know, but this spot is one of my favorites in the world. Here, I can let the space ground me, hold me, give me some time to figure out what’s next in my mess of a life.

I tune my beautiful instrument, face the audience of plants, and let music rise in my body, allowing whatever wants life to tickle my fingers. It’s both practice and pleasure, discipline and joy, a daily habit I’ve rarely skipped.

Like a moth to a flame, I flew, right into the incendiary blaze.

music is meant to be shared. It’s communication. The music itself taking life through an instrument or a voice, then reaching into the hearts and bodies of other people, and coming back. I never feel so

life is patterns, isn’t it? Patterns and routines create sanity where nothing else can.

The great tragedy of aging is not the loss of the supple body but the illusions we are forced to leave behind,

one after the other, like a string of pearls from a necklace. That all will be well, that dreams can come true, that we can always do what we wish, that sacrifice and sorrow are not inevitable.

we’re all in charge of our own happiness.

Truth always wins.

life doesn’t care if you like something. It gives you choices. It’s up to you to decide which things are right for you.