Immortal for a Limited Time

I never met Neil Peart, but I consider him my greatest inspiration.

Peart was the drummer and lyricist for the Canadian rock band Rush. Critics and music fans have universally regarded him as one of the best drummers in the history of rock and roll, as well as one of the genre’s most insightful lyricists.

You can surrender without a prayer,
but you can never really pray without surrender.
 — Neil Peart

Throughout his career, Peart was bestowed with hundreds of honors in the music world, including the ultimate distinction: induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2013.

But he was much more than a world class musician.

When I was a teenager, I read a quote from Peart, which I will paraphrase: the relentless pursuit of knowledge should be the driving force in all we do. As a kid in complete awe of his talent, those were words I needed to hear. That impression has lasted my lifetime.

However, it wasn’t just his relentless pursuit of knowledge and masterful drumming talent that elevated Peart to “hero” status for me. A tragic turn of events in Peart’s life solidified my deep admiration for his character as a human being.

In 1997, Peart’s 19-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. Ten months later, he lost his wife to breast cancer. Understandably, he went into dark place and his desire to play music was gone. He said he had to “keep moving or die,” so in the fall of 1998, he got on his motorcycle and just … moved.

In the end, he traveled extensively throughout North and Central America — 55,000 miles — riding alone on his motorcycle and keeping a detailed journal of his emotions and experiences on the road.

Peart found the act of traveling alone a soul cleansing experience. The journal he carried became a touching book about his odyssey of healing, called Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road.

Don’t leave spontaneity to chance.
 — Neil Peart

Peart published seven non-fiction books in his lifetime, focused on travel, music and personal stories. All are delightful reads.

After a period of mourning, he rejoined his bandmates and Rush toured the world for 15 more years, releasing some of the best music of their 40 year career.

He found happiness again, too. He remarried and became the proud father of a daughter in 2009.

When my son was born in 2009, I named him Neil.

~~~

Neil Peart kept his battle with glioblastoma private. When he died on 7 January 2020, the music world was stunned. He was 67 years old.

I wept when I heard of his passing. I felt a little foolish, shedding tears over a man I had never met, but he truly felt like a friend, a mentor and a teacher.

I guess that’s exactly what he was.

We’re only immortal for a limited time.
 —Neil Peart

Caramel Sauce for My Soul

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A flicker of crimson grabs my attention. I cannot help smiling to myself.

They’re back.

---

When I was a kid, there were two sources of entertainment at my house: the Lawrence Welk Show and the bird feeder.

Mom was a hardcore bird watcher. Our bird feeder was strategically positioned just outside the back window of our tiny house. Mom would sit with her cup of tea, binoculars nearby, Birds of Minnesota Field Guide within arm’s reach.

She even kept a notepad handy, jotting down the presence of a new or unusual visitor at the feeder, including the date and time. This was serious business.

But the most anticipated prize was catching a glimpse of the elusive cardinal, a brilliantly red beauty Mom had seen only a handful of times on our little central Minnesota farm.

That cardinal was shy and he was remarkably good at making himself scarce.

I marveled at Mom’s knowledge of birds and she gave me quite a feathery education at an early age. As a boy, I would sit next to her while she patiently taught me the nuances of nuthatches (“they are little acrobats”) and chickadees (“they are comedians with a little black cap”).

By the age of seven, I could identify a grosbeak’s song a mile away.

Puberty started playing practical jokes on my body in the 1980s and I became too cool for the bird feeder. Yet when I’d pass the back window with my big hair and cuffed jeans, I’d secretly throw a quick glance at the feeder, just in case that slippery cardinal stopped by.

I left home right after graduating high school, but Mom would still faithfully watch her birds. She would even write me letters telling me about the “Adventures at the Feeder,” including a detailed account of a marvelous cedar waxwing that happened to pass through the bird neighborhood one fall morning.

I looked forward to those letters more than she would ever know.

Less than two years later, my mother died unexpectedly. Her birds were soon gone. The trees became a silent shroud. The feeder was empty. So was my heart.

Years have passed and it seems only natural that a bird feeder occupies my own front yard.

The spirit of my mother is present as I teach my own children — grandchildren she never got to meet — everything I’ve ever learned about crows, blue jays and dark-eyed juncos.

It is caramel sauce for my soul.

Now it is my turn to keep a keen eye on the bird feeder. And every evening, I prepare for my nightly visitors.

A scarlet flash in the woods next to my home interrupts my thoughts.

I pause. I breathe. They’re back.

A male cardinal lands at my bird feeder. He cautiously surveys this way and that. Satisfied all is safe, his lifelong partner, her sand-colored body and bright orange beak, flutters down next to him. They look at each other for a moment before turning to enjoy their evening meal together in peace.

As the setting sun slides below the horizon, I look to the sky and grin, “Do you see them?”

Time has a unique way of healing.

Afterimage

Inside the lobby I am greeted by the nauseous smell of deodorizer and stale coffee. I hate this place. 

I make myself walk the freshly waxed hallway. I see her in the community dining room. She sits in her wheelchair at a table. Alone.

I pull a chair next to her. I visit her every afternoon.

She’s holding a photograph of herself. She stares at it, studies it, turns it around with fingers that are knotted roots. Taken 66 years ago. Gorgeous. Radiant. But she can’t recall who it is.

She notices my presence. She looks up at me with unclouded blue eyes, still shining, content with a life well-lived. But she doesn’t recognize me, her youngest son.

She looks back at her photo. Black and white. Her youthful image smiles back at her like a ghost.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” she asks me, the stranger sitting next to her.

“Yes,” I answer my mother. “She looks a lot like you.”

My Sunshine

Photo by Ava Branstner

She sits at my feet. 

Always faithful, always loyal.

Her trust is complete, her love unconditional. 

Even when the sun is in her eyes.

...

This is a beautiful photo of our Australian red heeler, taken by my daughter, who definitely has a photographer's eye. 

The image inspired me to write a quick four-line stanza, scribbled out in about 45 seconds. Instead of developing the lines, I decided to leave them alone to preserve the moment. 

Sometimes inspiration can come quickly and unexpectedly. 

Always Dig Deeper

In Apple Studios with Billy Preston, January 1969

This changed the everything.

I recently finished watching Peter Jackson’s Beatles documentary, Get Back. “Epic” is a grossly overused word these days; however, that is the best description I can give this film.

Most of you know I am in my element with anything to do with the Beatles, so for the sake of humanity, I am limiting myself to less than 300 words.

First things first: this documentary is not for the casual fan. Peter Jackson defends the documentary's length: "[I kept thinking] people have got to see this. This is great."

For the casual fan, I would recommend watching Episode 3.

There are countless fascinating moments in these hours of footage. The most memorable for me was watching Paul McCartney pull the song "Get Back" out of thin air. As the cameras roll, he sits on a chair, head down, emphatically chugging on his bass--searching for a melody, hunting for a tune--and suddenly it hits him: "Get back... get back... get back to dum-de-dum..."

A #1 hit, and an all-time classic born before our eyes. Absolutely fascinating stuff.

I think that was really the most amazing part of the entire documentary: watching the creative process evolve. After all, this wasn't just an ordinary band. 

When George Harrison brings in a very early version of what would become "Something" (yet another #1 hit!), he asks John Lennon for help with the lyric. Lennon sings, 

"Something in the way she moves ... attracts me like ... a cauliflower..." 

Lennon advises Harrison, "Just keep it going, George. It doesn't matter what the words are, they will come. Just keep the groove going."

Good advice.

Lennon and Harrison, January 1969

Now to the point of this entire post.

I’ve been a student of Beatles history for decades and the overwhelming consensus has accepted this was an absolutely miserable period in the band’s history.

Not so fast.

This fly-on-the-wall documentary has me rethinking everything I’ve ever read. My own takeaways from this eight hour time capsule:

1. John and Paul did not hate each other.
2. Nobody hated Yoko.
3. George was an underappreciated genius.
4. Ringo was the glue. His calming presence and amiable personality held the band together.
5. The Beatles drank a lot of tea.
6. The Beatles were quite fond of toast.
7. The Beatles smoked their collective weight in cigarettes.

What I've learned from this documentary is the accepted truth is just one side of the story. 

Always dig deeper.