I woke up a handful of mornings ago and learned that Sam Shepherd died. I had this urge to start writing, but I didn’t get very far and that effort has disappeared from this page. The news scared me a bit and I am not sure why, but I felt this tremor instantly harmonize with thoughts about my planned trip to Italy. Before I could have any say in the matter, Sam Shepherd and my looming,Tuscany two-step were all over the sunrise, make believe, dance floor that is my mind.
I have not read any of his award winning plays or his novels, but have seen some of his film performances and at least have a sense of his public persona. He had an unmistakable, measured presence, a weathered face exuding biblical character and a carriage of confidence. I got the feeling he was a man of his own mind and his grip was strong. He was around my age and so was Leonard Cohen, another iconic male figure. I know it is not some extraordinary coincidence that my surviving, contemporary cultural icons are departing at an alarming rate.
For some reason, I was very unsettled by that morning news and needed time to think about why it instantly touched on the trepidation surrounding my trip to Tuscany. Over the course of my life, I have attached myself to certain people, becoming accustomed to their presence. I am privileged to have shared my time with so many artists, who have touched me for one reason or another, because that’s what those folks do. For a good deal of my life, it was all the older ones that passed, feeling distant and unconnected, without history for me . Now, it is like my life long friends are leaving me increasingly alone. I can only hope that Dylan never, never dies.
I want to sing the Blues like Gregg Allman. I want touch a woman’s heart like Leonard Cohen. I want to be a denim and flannel knight like Sam Shepherd. Those people reach outside themselves, guided by dreams and nightmares of their own design, coupled with a need to share. Ultimately, it’s about authenticity, my own. I am constantly looking for Larry and that is art’s greatest gift for me.
I am not James Bond and don’t want to be him. I’m the guy who dribbles red wine on his clean, white shirt or spills hot, black coffee in his lap while driving, even neatly wrapping pasta around a fork has always eluded me. The only time I am not self-conscious is when I’m alone and that’s the truth. Hiding for people like me is always tempting, but it feels like turning my back on the only life I will ever have and I simply can’t.
There I was on that morning, having a major dose of anxiety about my trip. I was tossing around every possible impediment to enjoying this adventure, having nothing at all to share with you. There seemed like far too many details and endless ways to screw up.
After my morning Zen sit, I got up and did my three bows and then walked over to the computer, flipping it open, seeing the headline about Sam Shepherd. I started thinking about how he might approach my Tuscany two-step, which felt terribly ungraceful at that moment. He would have slowly gotten up, unwinding out of his favorite chair, where he was fishing down by the creek that runs by his home in the Kentucky hills. He’d pack the rod, his old acoustic guitar, a half empty bottle of tequila, along with his notebook and pens. Then, he slide behind the wheel of his old Ford pickup and drive straight to Tuscany, without giving it a thought.
The path narrows as I climb the mountain of time, with fewer people to keep me company on the way to my summit. I carry the departed with me, but it’s the kind of baggage that makes me feel lighter. I breathe them in, especially when I have made life much steeper than it needs to be.
I have a denim shirt that’s been with me for at least thirty years. It instantly became my official shirt for my Sunday, motorcycle ride with the Sons of Kauai. The inside collar has been frayed forever and I just got it reversed, allowing it to live on as my protective shield, safe from all danger. I will wear it on my flights to Florence and more than once during my travels, thinking of Sam Shepherd in his own fearless, cowboy denims. My sudden sadness at his loss has gracefully given way to a quiet comfort.
Everyone is coming with me and I am less alone.