Sadness and Celebration

This week was emotional.  There was enough sadness to fill a large stadium.  A young man, maybe in his forties, came up to me and asked me if I could sing "Our House" by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young.  Well, I managed to fumble through it, but he started to sob, uncontrollably.  I asked him what was wrong.  He said, he lost his wife of 25 years to uterine cancer two months ago, and that was their favorite song.  He cried and cried, and I could smell alcohol on his breath.  Whatever works.  I hugged him and he tipped me generously, and I said it wasn't necessary, but he insisted.  And so it goes.  He walked away, as I started my next song.
Music can tap into a source, a place of pain.  It can open a flood gate.
Music is not for the faint of heart.
Then there was the couple who approached me yesterday.  She was in a wheelchair, he pushing it.  I was singing "Ain't No Sunshine" by Bill Withers.  As I sang the man started singing back, call and response style.  At first I didn't notice it, but as he and his woman friend drew nearer, I definitely felt the connection.  Ain't no sunshine when she's gone.  Only darkness every day.  We sang back and forth to each other, I alternating with voice and harmonica.
It was the highpoint of my day.
Talk about connecting with your audience.
The couple was from Virginia and they were visiting Philly.  They were celebrating two months of marriage.  They had known each other for 26 years.  He had become a drug addict and she had hung in there with him, through all the hell and rehab, all those years.  Finally he had become sober, and she had married him as a reward.  I could feel the love vibrating from them.  Twenty-six years.  Talk about a test of their love for each other.
Both encounters made me feel grateful for what I have.  A talent to share and someone to love.
What else is there?