I am the trombone

I am the trombone.

You are trying to make a sound.
You are trying to join the music around us.
But I am heavy. You cannot hold me up.
The conudctor uses his foot to push me into position.

You can see the music, but you cannot hear my sound.
I can't hear my own sound above the din of music around us.
Have I made a sound?

Though we try with all our might, no sound comes out.
Why do I have a mute in my bell?

You move my slide, but nothing changes.
What's wrong?

Why can't I sing?

The Land of the Living

After about a week or more characterized by depression and suppressed anger I have finally returned to the Land of the Living.

The "other land" I was in is a strange place-- a place of misery and deep, dark fog. No one chooses to enter this land, yet once the fog's tendrills slip into the lonely spaces of our soul attempting to leave this land looks utterly futile. The fog speaks in our ear like the devil and stops up our other ear "protecting" us from the Song of Hope.

No one smiles in that land. People in that land cannot accept the kindness of others. Instead, kindness only evokes more grumpiness and anger. The words of the fog encourage brewding over all of our lonely and angry thoughts. Once it finds our self-doubts and anxiety the voices of the fog taunt us with them, so that we can think of nothing else even in our dreams.

Instead of letting us enjoy the brilliance of the sun, the fog highlights the sun's glare. It denies us joy and pleasure even in things we most love. In that land we may even find food dissatisfying and unappealing. Encouraging us to abstain from food is another way that the fog in that land weakens us to its will, thereby making it nearly impossible for us to pull ourselves out of its dark embrace. We inevitably even loose all desire to be anywhere other than this miserable place.

We scoff at words of encouragement. "You'll make it through this," a loved one may tell us. "That's easy for you to say! I will never feel better!" we retort from the Land of Dark Fog.

Until, without warning, a gentle breeze crosses our face, the fog lifts, the mood softens, and we finally breath the free air of the Land of the Living once again. It may come in an instant or slowly over several hours. We may feel tired, but as if a heavy load has been removed.

We feel the return of our smile, and, though we may still not have faith in it, we can again hear the Song of Hope.