Some say this world of trouble is the only one we need

This afternoon I sat on the ramp of the ferry launch waiting for the boat that would come carry me home when two fiercely tattooed gentlemen rode up behind me. Both had heavy beards and wore T-Shirts with the sleeves cut off. One of the T-Shirts was supporting what I can only assume is some sort of death metal band called Goatwhore (advertised on front) with this slogan on the back of the shirt: "Who needs a god when you've got Satan".

(Google tells me that Goatwhore is indeed a band, and I've just listened to their song entitled, "Apocalyptic Havoc".)

Given their fashion choices and seeming predilection for scary tattoos of devil-looking beasts, spider webs and skull and crossbones, one could assume that their conversation would lean towards animal sacrifice, or at least heavy liquor.

But no, these men were deep in conversation about their jobs (at some restaurant or bar) and how the shifts they were given for the month of February only amounted to about 6 days of work. Not even enough to make rent.

***

This evening I stayed home, nursing a headache that's plagued me for the last few days, reading and generally waiting for a respectably late hour so I could justify going to bed. With my dog snoring contentedly at my feet, I settled in on the couch and picked up a book of short stories I've been reading and rereading lately, "The Shell Collector" by Anthony Doerr. No sooner had I read the first two pages when the sound of music began to punctuate the air. I set the book down and listened more closely. Trumpets, trombone and drum, growing louder, moving closer step by step. I put Moby on his leash and walked out into a breezy beautiful evening. The music was coming from my right and I turned the corner to see a second line procession making its way through the neighborhood. All around me porch lights blinked on and people tumbled out of their homes. Old folks and teenagers. People with dogs and people with babies--the crowd grew with every count of the music and I fell in line as the parade passed.

We wound through two more blocks, picking up people along the way. No one said much but they danced in the cool evening and you could feel an energy moving through the crowd. I had a hunch what the second line was for--who the second line was for--and my hunch was confirmed when we turned onto the street where a good samaritan was shot dead last week while assisting a neighbor who was being carjacked.

His two young children watched it happen from a bus stop two blocks away and I've been troubled by the senseless tragedy of it all week even though I didn't know him. As we approached the house the widow and her two children heard the music and came to stand on the front lawn. The band halted in the street in front of her house and played three songs. The crowd clapped and swayed and the light cast by the street lamps was reflected back to me in the tears on many people's cheeks. I can't imagine most of the people knew the man, but it was clear they all grieved for him. I was moved by the beautiful joyous sadness of the music and of the people around me paying tribute. When the band finished, the wife said a few words of thanks and the crowd turned to walk back they way they had come, peeling off at each corner to go back to a regular Thursday night, accompanied by the fading strains of "When the Saints Go Marching In".

Whether we are death metal freaks, or regular dads, or trombone players or invincible teenagers,  it's impossible not to get caught up in the mundane details of life on earth. But it doesn't hurt to be reminded every now and then, even when that reminder is born of sorrow that we can't fathom, that there are so many beautiful moments in between the mundane, the sad or the plain bad;  we should treasure these moments before this life is not ours to live any longer.

When I got back to the house and picked up the book, I read the following lines:

"Ignorance was, in the end, and in so many ways, a privilege: to find a shell, to feel it, to understand only on some unspeakable level why it bothered to be so lovely. What joy he found in that, what utter mystery."

Yes. And yes.