The Roman Road

My dinner mate retired from a lifetime as a bricklayer a couple of months ago. His brother sits next to us. Years ago he too was a bricklayer, but now he works from home. When they visit in the afternoons, they drink beer until five o'clock. The middle aged woman sitting next to us, on the long dinner bench, has tears in her eyes as she describes what must be a spiritual awakening for her. She's childlike and rides waves of deep emotion close to the surface. She was so moved before dinner that I gave her a hug and we stood and shared a long breath together.

I was tired. We all were. Performing two sets of music on a Sunday afternoon may seem more like playing than working. In some ways maybe it is, but it takes effort. It takes energy. More so even when it's show number five of eleven in a row. I've learned that I can only hold so much space for people after a show, so eventually I drifted away from the table.

Yesterday, I got lost for awhile on a walk in the village where we're staying. I've walked here many times before, but this time I took a different path and got turned around. You can smile at people here, or not. Seems to be ok either way. I said hello to a woman who came out of her house and drove away in a 1970's dark blue Mini Cooper. I passed folks walking dogs, a woman taking a snack break on a park bench, and was passed by many a bicycle. I watched the parade of vehicles coming in and out of the grocery store parking lot. It started to rain.

Last week I put my hand on an 800 year old wall. Last night we performed in a 600 year old chapel. People have been here in these places for so long, I can't quite wrap my head around it. We walked along the Roman road last night before the show. 2000 years ago, people walked along this road. They worked. They ate. They slept. They loved. They fought. They made babies. They dreamed.

We have a great job. We use our songs and stories, our voices and instruments to connect with people. To create a sense of community and oneness. We get to experience the places we visit and the people we meet from a different perspective. The thing I'm most present to is that we are all the same. The same as when we walked the Roman road. The same no matter what language we speak, where we live, we who vote for, or what we believe in. We all want to work, to eat, to sleep, to love, to be loved, to fight, to dream...

Is the world a mess? Yes. Has it always been a mess? History would tell us yes. Will it always be a mess? Quite possibly. Do people piss me off? Yes. Are there things happening in the world that are beyond my comprehension? Yes. Do I have the strong, and sometimes uncontrollable, urge to harshly judge people who say or do things that I find stupid or unjust or evil or just plain wrong? Hell yes! The thing is, when I give myself over to that powerful urge, I'm in danger of losing something essential.

When I let my judgement machine run, and feed it the gasoline of politics, conflict, and divisiveness, I lose myself. I lose my connection to my own humanity. The thing I share with every other human on the planet. The thing that allows me to find compassion for people I don't understand, and feel connection with people I don't know. The thing that breaks my heart and allows it to be filled to the brim. The thing that makes me cry when Aretha Franklin sings. The thing that made me want to write songs and sing them in the first place. The thing that ties me forever to the Roman road.