This is an excerpt from the 'closing thoughts' section of the newsletter I write--I thought it would be worth sharing. Maybe you will get some ideas out of it, or you'll read a good book as a result.
STORYTIME:
I very recently experienced a book that elicited a particularly visceral response from me, which is rare...thus, I felt it would be relevant to share a bit about it as a part of the closing thoughts of this newsletter.
Yesterday, a book I had on hold from my local library's digital app FINALLY became available. I say finally because I must have joined the digital queue for this title more than six months ago...so long ago that when the app notified me it was available, I didn't even recognize the title. I am sure that this book is already a pretty popular title at this point--something I had heard about offhand and wrote down in my "check this out later" file.
The book is called When Breath Becomes Air; it is an autobiographical memoir penned by the author, neurosurgeon Paul Kalinithi, about his life as he is battling stage IV metastatic lung cancer.
I read most of it yesterday evening, being effectively unable to put it down as the writing is quite compelling. I was so engrossed that I fell asleep in the middle of it because I was too tired to keep my eyes open. I woke up early this morning to finish it, and as I was getting into the epilogue, I began to uncontrollably weep.
Never has a book made me cry before. I've read a number of amazing books in my lifetime, but the entire story leading up to that point in the epilogue just hit me like a ton of bricks. I have only ever been moved to tears (unassisted by life circumstances) by one other piece of art/media in my entire life. When I watched The 6th Man as a young boy, that movie hit home because I related to the theme of familial loss because I am close with my brother.
Perhaps When Breath Becomes Air touched me because I was recently blessed to spend precious time with family during the holiday, and reading Dr. Kalinithi's thoughts and emotions about his purpose in life as a neurosurgeon and aspiring writer, his relationship to his young family, and his relationship with death--both as a doctor, and then as a patient...all of it was incredibly palpable.
It made me reconsider whether or not I am doing enough in my own life--and I don't simply mean "am I grinding hard enough?" or "am I producing enough quality work?"--which are questions born of the ever-present hustle culture in society. It made me revisit questions of "how" am I living--am I being as present as I can be in each moment? Am I being as vulnerable with others as I can be? How am I opening myself and my heart to the intangible gifts of life and existence? Questions that I explore in my own works and performances, and that I will continually explore.
I started writing this newsletter yesterday, remarking that I regularly think about how it feels like time is moving so quickly--it's Sunday, and then, boom! it's Sunday again. But after reading this book, and recontextualizing/unpacking that idea and sentiment, maybe it isn't that time is passing at an unduly rapid rate (or even that I am perceiving it as such). Maybe I am not measuring life by the number of seconds, minutes, hours that pass. Maybe, instead, I am actually perceiving time in "moments"--periods of being completely engrossed and focused the now. As we have all experienced, I'm sure, a "moment" could be literally two minutes long, but feel like an hour (have you ever forgotten a line or a lyric during a public address where nobody could help you as you stood there on stage, mind drawing a blank?). Conversely, a "moment" could be literally 4 hours long and feel like it passed in the blink of an eye (characteristic of playing games with loved ones, wondering how the sun slipped away so quickly without any of us noticing). So, considering the more useful metric of a "moment" as defined above, perhaps my 24 hours didn't slip through my fingers...perhaps I only participated in 2 or 3 moments in that time period.
I'll wrap up my thoughts here as I continue to reflect on this incredible story through my own devices. This book certainly did not need my endorsement, but it is definitely worth a read (or a listen, if you are inclined to audiobooks).
In parting, may you all find a way to truly squeeze the most juice out of life that you can, however you choose to do the squeezing (and whatever it is you consider the juice worth drinking). May your metaphorical grip remain as strong as ever. As cliche as it is to say, tomorrow is not promised, so make sure you approach today like it is your last, or as we say on the bandstand: "play like your life depends on it", because it does and that is what we are called to do. I can wholeheartedly say I have 0 regrets about how I have spent my moments in the past year, but I can say with equal earnestness that I will be working relentlessly to dig deeper into what life has to offer (or perhaps, to dig deeper into what I can offer life).
I know this departs from the usual brief closing thoughts, but I believe a newsletter should offer more value than simply saying, 'Come to my next show!' While that is certainly valid—and likely why you signed up in the first place, for which I’m deeply grateful—I want to share something more meaningful. I will keep those performance/career-related announcements near the top of the newsletters so if you just want the quick and dirty details, it will be easily skimmable. However, just like my performances and music are about deeper things than "look how good I play the trumpet" (hint: it's never been about that), I think it's important to share things like the emotions and thoughts evoked by this book I read. It is ideas and stories like this that are the whole point of the work that I do as an artist, as a human, and as a being of light. We shall see what the future holds...or perhaps, we shall author the future through our intentions and actions.
Keep your eyes open,
VXH
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