Think like a butterfly

Another weekend unfurls its wings, and here I am, caught in a downpour of introspection. This week has been a veritable symphony of soul-searching, with more movements than a Mahler masterpiece.

Remember that brash confidence of youth? That unshakeable self-assurance? Well, it seems Father Time has been tinkering with my inner tuning pegs, leaving me a touch out of tune. It’s a universal experience, this gradual softening of our emotional calluses, but for someone who’s always prided himself on being the human equivalent of a major chord, this newfound vulnerability feels like an unwelcome key change.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not typically one for hand-wringing or navel-gazing. My default setting is more “Glass Half Full” than “Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude”. I’d rather be composing, sketching, or mastering a new piece than wallowing in worry. But becoming the conductor of a family orchestra, with all its financial crescendos and diminuendos, has left me feeling like I’m sight-reading a particularly tricky score.

For years, I’ve been grappling with a persistent refrain: “Why isn’t my world bending to my will? Why does progress feel as elusive as the perfect cadence?” I know I should be auditioning for bigger, grander orchestras, pushing my limits, seeking applause at every bar. But age, that sneaky little variable, keeps throwing in unexpected accidentals, turning my carefully constructed jazz progression into something more akin to free-form experimentation.

I try to recompose myself, to play the piece as I know it should be played, but those jarring notes keep creeping in. It’s enough to make one question if they’re even the musician they thought they were. Not everyone can nail Paganini’s Caprices or Chopin’s Etudes, true, but shouldn’t I be able to?

Helping my mother pack for her move was like flipping through an old songbook. The photos we unearthed were snapshots of a different composition – my favorite t-shirt, my sister’s ubiquitous dress, my father’s rare but radiant smile. My mother, once a fashion designer extraordinaire, now seems to be navigating her own challenging passage. It’s a stark reminder that even our parental maestros aren’t immune to life’s discordant moments.

Curiously, my father’s photographic journey shows a man who grew into his smile, his later years marked by more joy than his earlier, serious-faced days as a young father. I wonder, will my own life follow a similar crescendo?

As I ponder these weighty questions, I’m reminded of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. It starts with that famous glissando – a musical leap into the unknown. Perhaps that’s the key. Maybe life isn’t about perfecting a predetermined score, but about embracing the improvisations, the unexpected blue notes, and yes, even the occasional wrong key.

So here’s to facing the music, whatever tune it plays. After all, isn’t a life richly lived just one long, complex, beautiful rhapsody?