Good Medicine

The past few weeks have not been so great. We’ve been besieged by a virus that hit first Don, then Dan, myself, and now Marla. It’s been tough caring for sick family, trying to work (quite unsuccessfully) and coping with the stress of managing all of it on top of daily life. On Saturday we took a little time to sit outside and get some fresh air, study the sky, enjoy the greenery, and listen to the bald eagle soaring overhead screaming his fearsome call.

Marla brought out some musical instruments and began arranging them on the ground: an electronic banjo, a maraca, a train-whistle, and a harmonica. She then handed Don and I instruments and instructed that when she counted us off, we were to play. Neither of us really felt like playing, but we decided to indulge her for just a few minutes.

We began to play. It wasn’t much of a song—mostly tooting, shaking, and squawking, but it was enough to fire her imagination.











“Now everybody, move with the music,” she commanded. We moved, blew, plucked, exchanged instruments, played some more, and laughed.

“Daddy, you’re supposed to stop when I cut you off!” she giggled, as Don just kept right on tooting his train-whistle, and then sheepishly dwindled away as we stared at him. More laughter.

I was grateful for the unexpected lightness of spirit that our impromptu jam session had brought—music is good medicine.