The Bard’s Hymn
Old man Tim once said to me, “Son, the world’s so dark it’s dripping black. You want to make it out there? Let your heart never stop singing.”
As soon as our tiny world beckoned winter, I’d be carted off to the one place love and pain co-existed in harmony, one sustaining the other. Old man Tim lived on a rather steep hill overlooking a narrow valley with a certain type of bushes that looked ochre in summer, burgundy in the fall and silver in the winter. He claimed it was the bushy magic that was keeping him alive. He was 103 and as gaily as a young lad.
We’d strum our guitars, play the trumpet and belt out stories after stories till we would collapse out of exhaustion but wake up at the crack of dawn to pen down our weird dreams that would later serve as inspiration for the creepy and sweet songs we would write soon.
“On you go, Will, don’t stop. Don’t let the music die. The silence is killing me.” And it was. Every second spent in silence was like a huge hindrance to Old man Tim’s heartbeats but I never realised that.
His cabin was peculiarly small. It had a low slanting roof, a little porch on the front where he’d keep lighted lamps because he believed every flame would guide a lost child home, and the backdoors he never unlocked.
“One way in, one way out. That’s how life works here. You always clean up your mess.’’
The inside was as humble as my old man was. There was a fireplace for when the winters got too harsh, the mantelpiece housing photos of family I never knew and youth that was already a dream of the past.
His armchair was situated in the corner, an interesting piece of furniture that was neither brown nor gold. And on the walls were our prized possessions — our guitars, trumpets and an antique violin we were both afraid to touch.
“Sing for me, Will. Sing, so I may not lose my sanity. On you go, son.’’ For the longest time ever, I believed he was referring to actual songs and poems.
No one knew much about Old man Tim. He was the ‘Bard up the hill’ to all of us and that’s what his gravestone reads.
‘The bard up the hill whose poetry never stops singing.’’
"Dear Will,
I want you to never stop singing, to never keep a song unsung or a word unsaid. Life is too short to feed the hate in this world. The more you sing, the more beauty you radiate and the more beauty you radiate, the more everyone sees it and the more everyone sees it, the more this world feels like home. And that's what we all search for, right?A place to call home. A place where acceptance is the norm and love the golden rule. A place where losing your way is the same as finding it. Son, every sentiment kept unexpressed is what's feeding the black that eventually seeps out. Speak out. Speak when you're hurt. Speak when you're in love. Sing when you realise you get to call this beautiful world, home.There is beauty in every nook and cranny but not all are cut out, for the search of a lifetime. It should be abundant like air is, contagious like a smile and brilliant like the sun such that you could never miss it.
And being yourself is the first step to seeing the real beauty.Let your heart never stop singing.Love,
Your Old man Tim
Thoughtfully yours,
D
