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Once upon a time, there was a small group of villagers who lived beneath the shadow. Now this shadow moved around a lot. Sometimes the village was free of the shadow, but mostly, just around the edges of town. This cloud, always seemed to center itself, right in the middle, and it liked to sing all day long.

Some days it sung choral masterpieces from Mozart and Bach. Other days, melodic, slow tempo ballads of blues and jazz. While the shadow preferred orchestral pieces- somber tones, it found moments each day to brighten the mood with a little rock or pop. It depended on its frame of mind.

The villagers learned to cope with the music. They adapted their work schedules, to the type of chords ringing from above. The crashing of the percussion got them exercising and energized. The gentle rapture of the strings settled them down for the evening. Their mobility echoed the notes of the shadow.

One morning a villager, not wanting to exercise or follow the tempo- decided to play music of their own. They hummed glorious magic, just loud enough for nearby villagers to hear. The shadow was too preoccupied with keeping the earth shattering tunes on key. It felt a bit tired this day and had to work extra hard to stay on pitch.

The villager began to hum louder, and their measure took on a life of its own. Other villagers began to join in. Harmony, melody blending and creating the most beautiful sound. The shadow stopped, suddenly, the boom from the sky quieted. The only fusion of vibrations left, was that of silence and clarity.

Each instrument, each of the villager’s voices, were loud and carried with them such a frustration it was more of a bellow. A yawp, it was unsettling. Then they too became silenced, by the sheer awakening of personal noise. The shadow remained still and as motionless- as the first atom, before it became a symphony of energy.

Then there was an eruption of activity. The village filled with onlookers and spectators. Each wanting to listen to their practice, the sectionals of awakening. They wanted to find their thread, within the piece. The ensemble came alive. Voices blending into the most amazing concert. It was a philharmonic, symphonious, organic roar. And the outcry made the villagers weep.

The shadow was mute. The clamor below, was so thunderous, it bellowed- like a crash of spirit, soul and mind colliding with anatomy. Sound found its way into physical form. Music the protoplasm, growing and growing, into the embodiment of choice, voice, and action. Each villager with an instrument, carved from their experiences.

The shadow still remained quiet. Watching as the beautiful notes, combined into a unified celebration. Some villagers chose to be listeners, other musicians. Villagers found their place in the movement. They participated in their own way. Their voices, however subtle- added to the score. The soundtrack of this moment.

The shadow retreated. The loud boom of song, the shadow's song, dissipated- leaving the shadow humbled. Then joyful of the sharpness of each chord, the minor changes in scale, the boisterous percussion, and soft, intricate details of the wind instruments-as they combined with the wood. It was a transition, welcomed.

The shadow listened to the melody ring out- and as its volume lessened, all the noises were amplified. Many voices- crescendo or diminuendo was a cacophony, jarring and discombobulating- yet relentless. As some voices quieted, they could hear the rarest of harmonies, melancholy yet hopeful.

After a time, they used their voices to amplify the sound, and as they did, more villagers heard the sound and were moved. The villagers understood that, sometimes to truly listen, one must find the quiet in one’s soul. Then when you understand, you amplify the story of others.

If we are going to resolve anything, we have to listen first. We have to sit in the uncomfortable dissonance- the discordance. Unpleasant truths are truths that are necessary. Sometimes the most beautiful things are those that cause us to be the most uncomfortable.

What comes next, is not an ending for me to write. Or for one individual to write, but for everyone to write together. Even this story is not one of my perspective alone. It is a result of my conversations with my children. It is a discussion, ongoing.