Men At Work
A few evenings ago I was watching a movie. There was a moment that rang so true I had to stop and rewind to watch it a few times over. The scene depicted a woman inside her home on an upper level. She walked slowly to the window and looked downward toward an adjacent building which her husband used as a studio for painting. With a slight smile on her face she watched him as he considered his art and worked to create something of significance. I realized in that moment how much I miss watching a man at work.
When Pete was composing or perfecting a piece of music, he was all-consumed. The locations varied. At home, I’d most likely find him in the sunroom or the studio. On the road, he’d be in the corner of our hotel room or maybe backstage where he could find a private space. He would sit in a straight-backed chair with his arms wrapped around his guitar. His head might be lowered listening to the tune emanating from his instrument. Sometimes he would look into space, searching for the right melody. Likely he’d have a pencil clenched in his teeth and a composition notebook where he could scratch out the notes. Within the small radius around him, he was completely alone. He always looked deeply content as he worked to create something of worth. But, not nearly as content as I felt watching him.
I was fortunate to have a front row seat to this for many years. There were a million instances of this same scenario. Walking past a doorway to catch a glimpse of him while he was in that state was a beautiful thing. I would always pause and take a beat. I knew enough to appreciate what might not be there forever. I wasn’t peeking or attempting to be quiet. It was just happening, and I was just happening upon it. I didn’t have to wonder what he was thinking because I could hear it—working its way out of him. Repeated musical phrases, with slight variations each time until he settled upon the right one.
There was something about these moments that gave me comfort, and confidence that things were normal, and life was good. After someone dies, often people still feel them nearby or expect to see them walk into a room. I’m no different. I still see Pete out of the corner of my eye when I walk past the sunroom. He’s sitting with his back to me facing his antique desk with his guitar, a notebook, or sometimes his laptop open. He was so often there in the evenings. Five years later I still see him there, but only out of the corner of my eye. If I turn toward him, he vanishes. So I don’t turn, but I can still see him creating, deep in thought. A man at work.
