Massive trunks of old oak trees supported thick arms that meandered skyward. Heavy branches turned right then left with great authority though their directions seemed chosen by whim. A canopy of small oak leaves, some in shade, some in sun, enveloped us and hung from the farthest tops above us down more than halfway to the ground in front of us. This is where we decided to sit.
Shortly, a mild summer afternoon would welcome the first of an annual series of jazz performances amid a grove of Coastal Live Oaks. Like almost everyone in the small crowd my wife, mother-in-law and I began the process of claiming our patch of ground; picnic blanket down, lawn chairs up, basket of snacks open, wine uncorked. As anxious as we were to begin tasting and sipping, we sat for a moment in silence and simply absorbed our surroundings.
In contrast to our shady spot, a bright green expanse of lawn beyond the oaks was bathed in sunlight and served as a stage for the band. Another equally bright lawn lay behind us. These two areas were mostly filled by families with younger children. To either side were more oaks that sheltered the many small encampments of adults who did not bring their children. After comparing the setting to my mental image of last year and finding it unchanged, toasts were made, food was savored and chats were begun in earnest.
Half an hour of our musings mixed with the band's ever-advancing sound checks was the perfect prelude to the opening piece. The band, an accomplished modern jazz quintet, began with Green Dolphin Street. Perfect again, a great start that had the jazz-lovers nodding in approval and allowed those who were mainly there for the picnic a chance to taper off their conversations.
This idyllic setting is part of a larger public park with other sections devoted entirely to single flower groups or native landscapes or wildlife and bird migrations. It is absolutely one of my favorite places to visit and I am ridiculously lucky that it's just a short drive from my home. I thought of this bigger picture as the performance moved along from song to song and my attention also moved along from the music to the crowd.
The crowds at these events are very appreciative. As a whole, I think they are jazz-likers rather than lovers. But they love their summer garden, and they appreciate a musical performance in it even though many of them might not own a jazz CD. There are some, however, who are clearly aficionados, some who no doubt still play the original vinyl Sketches of Spain on a turntable. I know what I like, but I only know enough about how music works to try to listen intelligently and agree in mutterings when a musician talks about it. So it was fascinating to observe a few in the crowd who seemed to find deeper meaning in what the band was doing.
Now and then during a solo the sax would play a riff that sounded perfectly ordinary to me but when I looked at the vinyl people they smiled and chuckled as if they “got it.” They got something that ninety-eight percent of us missed. Of course I smiled and chuckled too, as if I got it. I thought to myself, "Yeah, that was pretty good," even though I wasn't sure why. There was something to get and I was trying to get it by pretending I got it. And then a funny thing happened.
A bit flummoxed, I stopped watching the turntable gurus and leaned back. I wanted to just enjoy the music without working at it. The evening had dissolved into twilight. I rested my head on the back of the chair and closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them I saw before me the stark black silhouettes of the oak trees against a dim sky. I followed the outlines of the trees from their base up along the thick branches and then out among the tens and then hundreds of diminishing tributaries to the leaves. And then it hit me. Suddenly the saxophone solo made sense. The wandering lows and the skittering highs were in front of my face all the time. Right, left, up, down, nearer, farther. The seemingly whimsical directions of the branches and the saxophone solos were one and the same. I could run my gaze along any branch to the notes of the sax and they were identical. They were finding the light. They were connected. And although I still didn't know a half-diminished seventh from an augmented major (I looked them up) I had a profound feeling of “getting it.” No longer was I searching for meaning in the notes. It was so simple. They were both just doing what they had to do to get to the light.
I think my Universe is a lot like that. Maybe it's like that with most of us. I know that an issue confronting me can appear to be extraordinarily complex and unfathomable. That same issue, when considered a year from now or five years or ten, will be resolved, and usually in a natural and simple way. How did it become resolved and uncomplicated? Someone, maybe me, maybe someone outside the issue, saw it in a different light. Someone saw a natural flow, a simplicity, a pattern, a connection. Sometimes it just takes awhile for our eyes to adjust.
Anyway, this magical night of music and revelation will be remembered for a long time. The drive home that night had a very different feeling. There will be more performances and more food and wine and wonderful chats, but I will always think back to the twilight that connected the trees and the jazz.
