It was 12:48 when our rented SUV turned off the narrow country road into the middle of nowhere. The Oak Hill Cemetery near Patoka, Indiana, was to be the final resting place for our father. Our core familial unit was incomplete for the first time, and I felt something I could not quite describe. It was not sadness or any other emotion that came over me then. I was numb, insubstantial, and disembodied. 

 The previous evening, I'd gone walking to clear my head. Eventually, I sat on a park bench to gaze at the night sky, trying to find some meaning that mattered. There was a full moon that night. December's aptly-named Cold Moon dwarfed me with its icy stare. Contemplating the vastness of the universe, relative to the brevity of a human lifespan, made me feel diminutive, and the cosmos was wholly indifferent to the micro-concerns of my tiny world. 

Looking back over my life, I realized the foundation which I had taken for granted was broken and crumbling. I was the child of two parents with robust moral standards and a strong work ethic. They did not shy away from physical labor and understood how to work a problem and get a job done. I also learned to work, train, and play hard. Like them, I put in the long hours, arrived early, and was often last to leave. My own ethic had always been a source of pride. Some time ago, however, I realized I needed to learn to work smarter, not just hard. This is easier said than done, but I'd begun making progress in that direction.

The art of "Letting go" is a concept that often comes into my philosophy. When I started practicing yoga, the martial artist in me didn't like the idea of "letting go." It sounded like giving up. I was too busy trying to conquer my yoga practice by twisting my body into postures I was determined to master by force of will. But now I understand that "letting go" doesn't mean giving up. It means surrendering the resistance and struggle. I am also a cyclist, and I consider athletic endeavors to be training for life. At this stage, physically, I have peaked. I know I am not likely to get stronger and faster. As I age, I am learning to drop the mental baggage of constantly pushing and learning to turn my focus inward rather than compare myself to cyclists. Having pulled back from the pressure to perform and relaxing into the experience, I find that I am cycling better than ever before. Cycling has now become a meditation. It is an exercise of breath, cadence, and aerodynamics. Embracing this "letting go" concept has made me a better yogi, martial artist, and cyclist. However, the key is to take these lessons beyond the yoga mat and the bicycle. I have adopted a phrase to describe the state of mind I aspire to. I call it "active patience." It means pursuing mastery with diligence and a sense of ease - practicing not trying to "get there" but "being there." This may be a lofty concept, but one must shoot for the moon to land, at least among the stars.

However, now my father had died. He had been a rock. Even in his old age, he stood for what he believed. It was strange to experience a world without him in it. We had to let him go, but I didn't know quite how to do that yet. Frankly, I didn't want to.

It had been a six-hour drive from Columbus to Patoka. During the funeral service two days prior, I sat in the church where I had spent my youth. Sunday morning had always been a special time. When I was very young, it felt like judgment day. I had to dress in my best clothes, sit in the Angel Choir box, and be ogled by the elders in the front pews. There were the usual approving smiles, but too often, there were glares of disapproval when I forgot my place, started fidgeting, or traded elbows with a fellow angel. However, I was actively participating in the ritual in my mid-teens. Sunday mornings were filled with excitement and anticipation. In preparation, I spent those mornings warming up my singing voice and trying to remember song lyrics after staying up long into the night preparing what I would wear.

I recalled a rose-colored, double-knit pant and vest ensemble I once wore, under a crushed velvet maroon blazer, with four-inch-heeled platform boots and a flowered silk shirt. Hey, it was in the seventies, and I was looking good! I remembered my pre-church ritual, positioned in front of an electric fan, trying to stay cool while hot-combing my afro for maximum loft. Singing directly into the fan also added ambiance to the vocal performance. When my preparations were complete, I dashed out the door and off to church in anticipation of good music, pretty girls, the post-service Sunday feast, and rollerskating in Urbana to finish the weekend. The world seemed smaller then, and those were fond memories of simpler times.

Maturity broadened that worldview. Through education, experience, years of study, performing, touring, and travel, I came to the understanding that religions, traditions, concepts of deities, and worldviews all exist within consciousness. Every lifetime is a spiritual journey, and the mission is not only to find meaning but to experience being fully alive. The physical body is a temple, and nature is the sanctuary. Sunday mornings remained sacred. They were for hiking, cycling, adventuring, and nourishing soul and spirit through life-affirming activities. Sunday mornings were for remembering, reconnecting, and re-establishing a bond with consciousness itself.

The pastor who preached my father's service had known our family since childhood. He said of my three sisters and me, "The fruit did not fall far from the tree." We were all the same kind of good, he'd said. However, that morning on our long drive to the gravesite, we were more like the same kind of crazy. We sang songs and joked most of the way. Singing was one of the many gifts our father had given us on our many driving vacations. Like our version of the Von Trapps, we pilled into our green station wagon with the wooden side panels and the beige cargo carrier on top. There was the sound of music across the country that summer, from Ohio to Redlands, California, where my mother's sister lived. By the final leg of our journey to the cemetery that day, I think my poor mother had had enough of my sense of humor, so I toned it down a little. Still, I needed that levity to get through the first half of that day. 

As I wheeled Mom's chair across the uneven ground, I looked ahead at the gathering. It was a smaller, more intimate affair than the one two days hence. Each had lost a father, husband, grandfather, uncle, or friend. We were all connected by the complex web of relationships. I cannot presume to speak for any other, but I know first-hand the complicated bond of father and son. After all, this was the man to whom I was the only male child, upon whose birthday I was born.

On the outside, I was steady and calm, but my thoughts vacillated between head and heart, trying to reconcile the two. Death was part of the cycle. My rational mind accepted its inevitability. On the other hand, my heart didn't know what to make of it all. I harbored no regrets or guilt. I'd come to terms with any conflicts I might have had with my father long ago. When I was still a young man-child, trying to be a man, I was not so enamored with my dad. He didn't talk much. I felt he was holding things back. I wanted answers to life's questions, and he wasn't giving me what I thought I needed, but something changed after I left home for school. I learned that many people talked too much and did too little. I realized that Dad was a man of action. He was also a man of his word, even though those words were few. Over the years, as I gained a little wisdom, I came to appreciate the time my father and I spent in silence, working side-by-side on projects and tasks.

I built my life and career in the big city, but when I went home, we repaired roofs, painted garages, hung shed doors, built fences, leveled driveways, and fixed stuff. There were always things needing repair on the three homesteads my parents owned and maintained in Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. "How long do I have you for?" he would say when I came to visit. Then we would tackle whatever adventure we agreed upon and finish with a sense of accomplishment. I had made peace with the man and cherished our time and experiences. 

The road had brought us to a barren plot of frozen land to pay our final respects. I maintained my stoic demeanor for my mother, three sisters, nephews, and extended family. That's what I needed to do. Still, I would have to unravel my knot of unexplored emotions another time. 

"Hold on tight, Mom," I cautioned, eying the uneven ground. 'Rough patch ahead." 

"Um-hum, she responded." I wondered how she would fare in the days ahead after losing her life partner of sixty-seven years. That was a long time to be married, I was thinking. They had been hearty people; of heart, body, and will. They raised their four children to be the same. However, nothing in this world is immune to the forces of rust and decay. My dear mother seemed so tiny, vulnerable, and frail. I loved her more than ever. 

"I don't want to be here anymore," she had been known to say of late. 

Ultimately, we must all find a balance while navigating this realm of animate existence between birth and death. Intellect and emotion are contrasting forces pulling us in opposite directions. It can be exhilarating sometimes and exhausting at other times. But, one can only find balance in constant forward motion, someone once said, and all we can do is make the best of life's challenges and continue to move onward and upward. In other words, we must adapt, transcend, and evolve or stagnate. As it turns out, equanimity is an elusive thing. 

Looking across the remaining few feet of frozen grass, I saw the casket suspended above the recently dug hold in the Earth. That fancy box and what it contained was only a symbol to me. My father was long gone from that place. He was already at peace. 

I parked my mother's wheelchair beside my aunt in the front row and found myself a seat. Soon, a melody was in the air as my aunt and sister's angelic voices carried one of the standard hymns Dad used to sing. I joined in to add the missing harmony. Music has always come naturally to my family. Although hymns were not my kind of music, I remembered them well. I decided to follow the music and stayed out of my head. It was getting too crowded in there. 

The graveside ritual was moving. A bugle played Taps, and two soldiers meticulously folded the American flag and presented it to my mother. It was a touching tribute to a good man. I remember Dad had been proud of his military service. 

A human lifespan seems too short in the overall scheme of things. Still, no life is insignificant. Dad lived to see ninety-three years. He lived too long to have passed before his time. Relatively speaking, his was a long life.

As I reflected upon the quiet strength of the soft-spoken man I was blessed to have had as a father, I realized he did his part, in his own way, to leave this world a better place than he found it. He touched many people's lives, and in the end, it was not his words that mattered. It was his honor and strength that spoke volumes, and it was the little things that meant the most. 

Two weeks later, on a bitter cold Yuletide Eve. I was in Philadelphia with Lisa to visit her ailing mother. It was not Christmas that I was most looking forward to, but the new year. I liked new beginnings. Looking over the previous year and the goals I'd set and checking that list off in my journal gave me a sense of accomplishment. I was contemplating the next leg of the journey. Unlike those casual New Year's resolutions that people often made, I visualized possible futures. I mapped out business and personal goals and a plan to reach them. 

It had been a challenging year. The family lost good people, including my brother-in-law, a couple of aunts, and, most recently, my dear father. Correction, they were not lost. In this universe, nothing ever dies. Energy merely transmutes from one form to another. These individuals would live on in memory, having left indelible imprints upon the fabric of our being. They were not lost, and I would not let sorrow dishonor the contributions each of them made. 

As the year ended, I had my own health concerns. One day I was the healthiest person I knew, and then suddenly, I was facing my own mortality. I caught a virus and, being overworked and mentally stressed, found myself on the verge of collapse. That condition was temporary, but it was an eye-opener, a virtual slap across the face, a warning to be taken seriously. I was forced to take notice. It was an opportunity to adjust and recommit to being an even more evolved version of myself. I had to find a better way to manage stress. This is what I learned that year. We may not create reality, but we do create our experience. It is not what happens to us but how we feel about what happens that matters. Life is a game, and while we may be powerless to change the cards we are dealt, we can play that hand to the best of our ability. This is the point of the game. Every breath we breathe, every thought we entertain, every word we speak, and every action we take matters. 

A philosophy professor I once studied with challenged his students to have an authentic thought. 

"Can you step beyond the limitations of conventional thinking and have a thought that is your own?" 

I have thought about this often and realized only in mediation can I recognize such a thought. I have heard many songwriters say their best songs came to them entirely written. They were only the conduit. I have had similar experiences. Writing and meditation have become the place where I can wrap my mind three-hundred and sixty degrees around an ideal, process emotions, and find answers to the most profound questions - ever-evolving answers to ever-evolving questions. Meditative writing was how I lifted myself from the previous year's ashes, found a better perspective, and changed the narrative. It is how I return to that desired state of equanimity and balance before resuming life's chaotic adventure. 

However, this was a temporary fix, like putting a bandaid on a mortal wound. With life's ever-increasing complexities, aging parents, the ongoing challenges of marriage, being a fitness studio owner, an artist turned entrepreneur, and a songwriter turned novelist. There was so much yet to accomplish, and time was running out. What I needed was a full-stop, systemic reboot to sort things out. I needed a more immersive experience. 

There was a time when I took annual excursions into the wilderness to write songs and explore meaning uninterrupted. I stopped the practice after I got married, but this was the experience my soul had begun to crave. It had been too long since the last time, and I needed it then more than ever. I made the decision to go. However, I would have to wait until the mountains were warm enough. It would be another seven or eight months before I could venture there.

The stormy night had passed, and I was perched high on a ridge overlooking a placid pond. Basking in the rarefied air, I quietly strummed my acoustic guitar while breathing in the sweet scent of petrichor and pine. I was deep in the High Peaks of the Adirondack Mountains, where I had returned over the years. I could almost hear the cool wind in the trees whispering, "Welcome home."

Thunder growled in the distance, but I was unfazed. Rainy days were, in fact, my muse. I had a list of favorite rain songs, such as The Temptations- "I Wish It Would Rain," The Dramatics- "I Wanna Go Outside In The Rain," Mother's Finest, or Tina Turner's "I Can't Stand the Rain." Of course, there was Prince's- "Purple Rain, and recently added Ed Shereen's- "Make It Rain." However, I wrote my newest favorite before dawn that morning in my tent. It was a heartfelt tune dedicated to my affinity for the rain and the woman I loved. I titled it simply "Rain Song."

When it comes, I go outside

There I walk in the rain and watch others get wet

See, they run, they hide, they try to find cover but

I really love it when it rains

It was March of '93 when I first laid eyes 

Upon the radiance that is your sunshine

Under a cloudy midnight sky, our lips first met

I remember cause it was in the rain

Let the rain come down

Let it rain on me

When the rain comes down

Know that I'm thinking of you

Sometimes it summons me

To a place where all of my dreams run free

I go there to explore, separate the forest from the trees

What I'm really searching for is for the very heart of me

Discover what I believe

Who I am and what I am to be

Sometimes it summons me 

To a place where all that I know is real

I go there to feel

Slip into an ocean deeper than me

What I'm really searching for is, for the very heart you see

For the core, for the root, for the seed

It brings me right back into your love

I finished the song. With the last few notes still hanging on the alpine air, I reached for a stone and tossed it into the water below. Concentric waves rippled out from the entry point, and I watched the light dancing on the undulating surface. This set my mind into motion, contemplating the interplay of cause and effect.

The nature of consciousness was whole and complete. Yet, in their infinite shortsightedness, humans continued to divide and separate into smaller sub-divisions. Splitting off from the whole, isolating into types, and walling themselves off from the natural world, they call this identity and fail to comprehend. Without the whole, the separate parts are meaningless. To use a metaphor, they forsake an entire forest for a tiny grove or maybe even a single tree. Thus, they are constantly at odds with the Earth, one another, and themselves. 

Periodically, I must liberate myself from this tyranny of conventional thought and step away from the myriad of disparate voices vying for attention and shouting to be heard, one over the other. The purpose of my sojourn was to get beyond the delusions of separation, become one with nature and the universe, and remember who and what I am. "I am" is the truth. The story begins with whatever comes after "I am..." in a statement. 

There are few reflective surfaces in a forest. After days of solitude, I could hardly remember the face I once identified with. With no one to call my name, that, too, lost its significance. This is when I remember I am one with the mountain, the wind, the tree, and the ever-changing sky above. When the labels have faded away, along with the masks and the many hats I have worn, the story can be seen for what it is. 

Through the rigorous exertion of climbing mountains, with mental discipline and a singular focus, I entered the void - an old-growth forest called the forbidden zone. Then, in meditation, withdrawing my senses from the material world, I contracted to expand into the infinite. In that timeless space, I felt intimately connected to all things.

In my meditation, I saw an inked quill poised above the blank page of the next chapter of my mortal life. I asked the question that presented itself. 

"So, what's next?"