I was with some friends and I was driving with them through the town where I grew up. The lens in which I saw my hometown was through my childhood; cinematic, regal, fresh. As we made our way to State Park and parked the car, I saw some other friends from High School, I should know their names, but time replaced it with new ones and I was a bit embarrassed as they knew mine. I played it off smoothly, and later, I spun off to ask my brother their names and all was good. It was a picnic occasion, and we went up to the church on the top of the hill. One of the brothers whose name I didn’t know had turned himself into a pretty good preacher, unbeknownst to me, and we were going to have a Sunday sit-down in the church, and the fellow was going to preach.
I was there for fun, and after a bit I asked if we could sing a couple of songs. A banjo appeared and the most crisp intimate version of a bluegrass standard was snug. Pure joy, and the music enveloped me with a spirit that can only be spoken of as holy and I sat transfixed in a deep state of listening— mental acuity was as sharp as a tack. As time waned, some of the others took a walk, and I caught up with the preacher, young guy’s brother I went to HS with, and some of the other worshippers. One guy was wearing shorts, and the preacher keep bringing me choice varieties of alcohol that he loved. The event unfolded somewhere between a cookout and a church service. It was a small back-pocket bottle of a rum in a tan plastic bottle, and boy he was excited for me to try it.
As the cook-out was happening I found myself on the back steps with a fiddle. I picked it up and started sawing on it pretty good. My bow hand was rhythmic and strong, but my fingering hand was shy to float up and down the neck and so, tentatively, I started pushing down on a few strings to change notes, and though I’m a novice I was having one hell of a time. I worked up a pretty good racket with the fiddle and was visited by a black man that can best be characterized as a sage, who watched my intently, smiled slightly, and his presence was motivating to keep up the practice. He never really got to close, but there was something magical about his presence.
As the others came around, my fiddling, though playing with good intensity, became quiet. I couldn’t hear the notes, and I realized how hard fiddle playing is and that I didn’t know how to do it. They came with a bear spotting story, though the size of the bear ranged from fierce Apex predator to a bumbling playful cub. The music in this dream was a joyous experience, as are most of my dreams where I hear music, and awoke with with a good spirit that is seldom felt.