My America is a Generous Place
My America is a generous place. A place where folks go out of their way to coax a tune. Invite you in for coffee and ask you to spend the night or two. My America is filled with folks who are holding on desperately to a dream that may have slipped away, but still beckons. Fellow baseball fans, music fans, weather talkers, and puzzle doers.
The Americans I see are rooted in goodness; ready to tell you their story and hear yours. Willing for the adventure, the journey and to answer the call…every day. The call to grow up. To grow old. The call to take care of each other. To remember and, sometimes, to forget. Some in harsh and sorrowful surroundings. But miraculously, remembering beauty.
Powerful mountains that are still growing. Trees testifying to power, endurance and love. Plains of every color that have fed world. Tired though they may be, still green. Singing of hope.
Tonight, I’m sitting in an eccentric and wonderful household, invited by Max Beery, nephew of Wallace Beery. Max worked today (and most days) as a nurse saving lives in a trauma center. But tonight he is preparing for tomorrow when he will host my concert. He’s moving furniture, setting up a sound system. And just to make sure that everyone will feel at home at the concert, he’s preparing a soup. Enough for all who come.
I am humbled. By Max. By the folks in Pennsylvania who hosted a show in their garage. The club owners along the way who invited me to sing. The families who’ve opened their homes. The songsters and film makers who’ve shared their work. The painters and print makers.
Like the trees that reach for the sky, we all fall short. But this effort, these risks are beautiful beyond description.
Leonard Cohen said it so well:
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever