On Dried Fruit

On my beginner’s course*, there was a great deal of “stuff” flying about. What I mean by this is that there was an unbelievable amount of information on offer, from the basic, to the musical, to the extra-musical and emotional. From the moment I stepped out of the car at the retreat, to the moment I stepped into the airport to head back home (and even long after that, it seems), there was a constant stream of feedback available to us. It also feels more appropriate to say “available”, as opposed to “given” or “directed”. Describing it otherwise is, while not necessarily dishonest, logically inaccurate.

As one would expect with a course centered around the guitar, there was naturally an enormous amount of music available. At each meal, the food was “introduced” with a short performance from someone on the course, be it one of the house team, a long-time Crafty (or three), or an intrepid beginner. There were several performances that made a lasting impression on me, such as most of the Tuning the Air performances, and Greg Meredith’s song, “Walking From Here to Heaven”.

What struck me the most, though, were Patrick Smith’s performances. They were all solo guitar, on his Ovation. If I remember correctly, he played three times, each time at dinner. His compositions are solid, well written, and have some occasionally thorny harmony, which adds to the appeal for myself. On top of this, he’s a very skilled player. The second time he played, however, was not perfect. Granted, almost no one pulls off a perfect performance, but this short piece was actually not played nearly as well as he could play it. There were several mistakes, a couple of which were bad enough to prompt restarting a section.

I am not pointing this out to draw attention to the supposed inadequacies of Patrick’s performance. In fact, as Patrick was struggling to play a passage which he clearly knew, one could actually feel everyone in the room supporting him and his performance, offering silent good will to him. When he finished the last chord, the sense of relief was palpable. It was not a sense of relief that it was over, however, but relief that he’d made it to the end. As he sat down at the table, we began to eat, with very little talking. Within minutes, though, this led to what Jaxie Binder called “the first real silence on the course”, and it was deafening.

Later on, after dinner, I walked over to Patrick and told him that I’d really enjoyed his playing, warts and all. He thanked me, and we talked for a little bit—he told me that it was hard for him to play at dinner, largely because he was coming straight from preparing the meal, preparing the hall, and cleaning up the kitchen to prepare for after-meal cleanup. It is difficult to play guitar when your hands are pruny, and I can attest to that.

But, I didn’t. I agreed with him, but for some reason, it didn’t quite hit me until about a month or so after I got home to Boston. I greatly appreciated his presence at the course, and had a vague idea of what role he was serving at Raft Island, but I didn’t quite put one and one and one together. The sacrifice that he was making, to ensure that we were all fed and nourished, and that the hall was always prepared and set for meals (which is difficult to manage for 60+ people), and still felt the need to play and offer, regardless of how warmed up he wasn’t, or how pruny he was, is an example that I think we all could learn from and appreciate. I hope I do, eventually.

*This already feels like the right thing to say, even though I haven’t attended another course in person yet.