Why I cry at jazz

the fingers on the piano, the poised wrist on a double bass, lungs holding out for the sax in the master’s hands—I love the part of me that music plays

watching and listening to someone share their gift for music—honed over years of obscure and unrewarding practice times—can only be marred by noisome explanation

tell me, perhaps, the name of the song, or the great who inspired your passion, but then let me alone to go with you to places your music leads

do not (I mean) tell me what you had for lunch or where to find your latest album—I may or may not want to know, but now is not the time

now is the time of Music and you are made for now to lead—to play what you know, without words—to speak to the part of me longing to hear what only you can say through the desire to follow where the line leads of its own, instinctive accord

a jazz trio communicates—without words—midstream heading to unrealized endings is similar to the way we find our way with each other; letting creativity be our guide; trusting in God for greater outcomes than we ever could have managed or imagined on our own

what place do soloists have in jazz—I find none, even if my mates all have different postal codes, I sense their nearness. “Was my spirit not with you?” the prophet Elisha asked his servant Gehezi, rhetorically.

jazz makes me cry—I sense the closeness no words can offer this place in my heart where I live to love—that’s why, as if jazz has a why