As I was sitting in an American flag sling lawn chair with the moonlight above my head, a fire crackling by my toes, and the chilly North Dakota night breeze blowing on the back of my neck, I leaned over to Somebody and said quietly under my breath, "Who gets this life?" He didn't say anything back, but rather looked at me and simply nodded his head, giving me his agreement of what I was feeling.
Who gets the life of listening to an amazing to the point of awe inspiring singer and guitar player while camping with friends? I mean really. It was a pinch me, this can't be happening, moment. Because when I met Terry earlier that afternoon, I would have never guessed by his laid back demeanor and plaid shorts and tennies and kid bossing, that he would turn out to be an artist. A musician.
The average man, husband, and father who had been doing the normal camping activities of leveling the camper, drinking a cocktail, catching up with friends, and keeping track of kids riding around on bikes transformed into an artist right before my eyes around that campfire. All by picking up his guitar, the one his father gave him, and plucking the strings with his fingers. And then letting his voice join in, the singing voice that is so perfect in tone and pitch that it is nothing other than a gift. It has to be.
It went on for hours. A request for a song would be yelled out from the peanut gallery. He'd play and sing it like it was his. And he'd turn to one of his kids right in the middle of a break in the words of the song and say, "Hey, I told you to put that flashlight down." All without missing a beat. It went on for hours. Us sitting there completely transfixed by an artist doing his thing.
I'm convinced that when someone is engrossed in their art, they become the person they are meant to be all the time. Life has a way of hiding that person because the every day gets in the way. The lawn needs mowed, the kitchen needs cleaned, jobs need to be went to, food needs to be prepared, kids need showers...and pretty soon night falls without there being time for art. Time for doing your thing.
I'm also convinced that art comes in many forms. I even think teenage boys constantly working on their pickups, adding this sound system and that chrome, is their way of being an artist. Or when I watch my sister spin her horse around a barrel, I believe that's her art. We all have something that makes us tick. We all have some kind of artist living inside of us that needs to be allowed to thrive. Because, it's in those moments of doing our art that we transform into the people we are meant to be. Then I suppose the trick is to keep that "yeah, I'm rocking this" feeling going through the more mundane tasks of the every day.
For me, the most substantial rocking this feeling is found through my camera lens. I consider myself lucky because my art really does come along with me all day and keeps me noticing the small.
And the large. I notice the large too. All because of my art.
I know. I know with certainty that in the brief seconds of rolling down the car window and click click clicking the sunset, I am the person I am meant to be.
We all have something that turns us into the artist that hides in us. For Terry, it's his voice and his guitar. Just when I thought that maybe the night before had all been a dream, that I really hadn't witnessed an inspiring, amazingly talented musician around a campfire, he pulled out his guitar again. This time under a bright blue sky spotted with white marshmallow clouds with the birds chirping as background singers. He did his thing. He transformed into an artist.
It didn't lose any of its magic either. It might have even been better in the light of day.
As I sat there in that same American flag sling lawn chair, this time red faced and hot from just returning from a long run in the hills, I turned to Somebody once again and said quietly under my breath, "Seriously. Who gets this life?"
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