Mountain Dulcimer Lessons

I remember the first time I listened to my mother strum her mountain dulcimer.
   I remember the way she held it gently in her lap,  her hands cradling its scratches and its worn-down imperfections..   I remember the glow of the sound,  the soft resonance..   simple, droning and melodic.   The strings vibrating along the cedar frets..  the lonesomeness of it..   the earthy, essential honesty of it.  
I remember feeling the blood pumping from my heart to my ears..   standing there, lightheaded, entranced..  not daring to breathe. 
 And I remember knowing instinctually, that sound and I were destined for a relationship..   that we were invented for each other... 

Somewhere in the roaming out of life, I feel that I stumble upon pieces of my essential self,  reflections and fragments of my innermost person.      
Hearing my mother play her dulcimer.. 
Focusing a camera lens..
My first time riding a motorcycle.. 
Feeling the weight of my first leather journal.. 
The smell of my dad's tractor.. 
Wandering through the Redwoods of northern California.. 
My feet in the stirrups of a horse..  
The scent of saw-dust..

There are times when I feel no distance at all from myself...  nor from the clarity of my identity.  

To be in the place that we are most our essential selves,  is to be closest to wholeness.   
Following a life that revolves around this identity..   seems to me the only life worth pursuing.




Andrew Tipton