Sudbury, Massachusetts — We walk a snowy nature preserve, my face stinging as the wind beats across a scattered orchard. My bundled family, brother, mother, stepfather, nephew, pace in changing proximities. My path is organized by throwing a stick over and over to Bell, the black mutt.
Back at the house, we eat leftovers, nap and I rise to sing, stepping in socks down to the wood shop.
I find myself insulated somehow today from quick assessment, convergence, conclusion. Perhaps it was the short sleep, the exercise or the progressive letting down of this holiday.
For a few minutes, I alternate throwing my left and right hands forward in a steady rhythm and sing different time signatures on top.
Then I drop the rhythm and release into less structure. I can hear different aspects of prior sessions blending together and wonder if there is some kind of formulation of style occurring over time in me.
As I listen to myself, it’s in curiosity rather than assessment. This is originality discovered rather than asserted, this is the patience and patterns of 100 practice sessions revealing some sort of emergent order.