Bits of My Memory
I was reared and raised in Southern Indiana by a devoted and loving family. I first played an instrument in front of an audience at the tender age of thirteen. The ten people in attendance at that tiny Pentecostal church that Sunday morning seem to think I did just fine. Well, at least they haven't complained. Yet. And it stuck with me. When I was twelve, my parents finally relented to my pleas for a drum kit. Within a year, our pastor had asked me to set it up in our church. That's when I caught the itch. That first Sunday morning. The first time it was more than just The Instruments. Our preacher called them The Congregation. But somehow, I already knew. They were The Audience. It always bugs me when people start yammering about how they've 'found new meaning in life', so I'll just say that I have found new purpose. I also have a renewed appreciation for family, as well as a refined definition of the word friend. I'm still the same me that's always been there in the mirror, I just like him more than I have at times in the past. It's a good feeling to wake up in the morning and be excited about the day ahead. It's also nice to know that I still love playing and writing music as much I always have. I think about that fateful Sunday morning all those years ago quite often. The day that music became my passion. There have been times when thinking about that day has made me angry. Other times it has made me sad. Anyone with a passion for something has to make sacrifices somewhere else, and I'm no exception. In the past, I have questioned whether or not those sacrifices were worth it. Self doubt leads to self loathing, and that loathing can make a man bitter. Still, I think about that day all the time. Only now I smile.