These last 72 hours have been something phenomenal. While I am exhausted both physically and mentally, I am recharged by the overwhelming good nature of the people who surround me.
Last night in particular was one of those evenings where I was in a basement surrounded by familiar faces to watch a friend of mine play some music. A normal night by most accounts, if any of you have friends who are musicians. You support them and cheer, clap, and sing their songs. You imagine if you yourself would have the balls to get up on stage and sing an original composition you yourself created. Most likely it is about a very serious event, and you are belting your lungs out to a crowded room that is only half-paying attention. You’re spilling your guts—your most intimate details—and if but one person heard your lyrics, you have done your job as an artist.
The starving artist: a cliche we hear all the time. Scraping and scrounging to get some door charges to cover some new strings. Staying up late night to peddle your wares in hopes you can afford a few beers or replacing that guitar cord that is all frayed and screwing up your set. Knowing right well that tomorrow morning you have to step out of the spotlight and go back to the job you may or may not like at the crack-ass of dawn.
So as I sat in this room, my friend, Jon Wallett, steps up to a microphone as he has probably done hundreds of times before. He tunes his green sunburst Ovation, clips on his capo, and clears his throat and does what he does for the love of the music… only this time, it’s for a different reason. Tonight, Jon is singing his tunes for David—a guy he doesn’t even know. I am not even sure if Jon has ever met David, or had a beer with him when he was alive. Yet tonight, Jon dedicated the entirety of his door proceeds to the LIPF, and 80 people listened and supported his decision.
I didn’t ask Jon to do a show for us. I didn’t ask those people to show up. They just did. They saw something they believed in, and they made that decision on a Tuesday night to dedicate their time to my brother.
I looked around the crowd: I saw all the familiar faces of people who have done something generous for me and the organization, and I was overcome with a feeling of gratitude and hope. There is something innately “right” inside of all those people who, for some reason, made it a personal obligation to throw in and do their part as they do it. I settled in with a couple beers and let the music take me away. We sang along, we listened to the originals wondering why he doesn’t do more of them. A group of 80 friends did something right together.
I woke up this morning with a smile on my face. Humbled by the fact that, as much as I do for the foundation, it’s these little random acts of kindness that drive me to keep writing. To explore the depths of the after-effects as a survivor of somebody who lost their best friend to suicide. It is the fuel in my tank that permits me to pursue new ways we can help our friends who may be suffering from depression.
It’s 80 people in a room listening to one guy who, for one night decided, he was going to do his part and use his art to make a difference. Never asking for a thing—just giving what he had to offer, to let us all get together and smile, sing, and remember why we are on this planet.
