Jordan Griffin

TED 640

Dear Jordan

Dear Jordan,

This letter hails from the seat of my lofty cosmos to make known that I am watching; I’m

watching as much now as I always have been, and I plan to do so for as long as I can help it. As

you’re biting back the tears that threaten all composure and plead internally for naught but to

escape this sterile and bright room, know that you are not alone. Amongst the dramatic re-runs

afforded me by the eons, I’ve spied upon this scene more times than one may count the

potholes upon the surface I call home. Indeed, this loss is but one of the hundreds of billions I

have witnessed in my time. Thus, this letter heralds not a message of pity or remorse, but

instead serves to illuminate an alternate perspective: as the sun melts into the horizon and her

light ignites my home for all to see, understand that the rays of hope and joy shall too shine

through this loss.

As you sit aside your now resting companion and ponder the somber choice made

today, pray consider for a moment your favorite band: The Grateful Dead. Was it not they

who’s philosophy of living in the moment unbound you from the chains of your adolescence?

Let us revisit, if you will, the lyrics of their song Black Muddy River:

When it seems like the night will last forever,

And there's nothing left to do but count the years,
When the strings of my heart begin to sever,
And stones fall from my eyes instead of tears,
Jordan Griffin
TED 640

I was fortunate enough to witness the composition of the last line twice: most recently

by The Grateful Dead and first by Shakespeare himself in his work Romeo III. The original reads,

“your eyes drop millstones, when fools' eyes drop tears.” When you are prepared to leave this

room as a party of one fewer than when you entered, I ask would you choose the path of the

pitiful fool who should remain in the endless night, surrounded by unquenchable stars of

sucking sorrow and comet tail tears? Or, shall you employ the years of love and take his legacy

forward with you forever in appreciation of the moment? Should you allow these seconds and

minutes to outweigh fourteen long and happy years?

As the minutes stretch to hours before you, and you wonder Was today the right time?

Was there anything more I could have done? and Was this the right choice? I would but now

draw a comparison, if I may, to the genre pioneered by The Grateful Dead: jam. It’s a funny

word, isn’t it? Jam. Usually when we think of a jam, it means to be stuck; to be so far into a

situation that you immediately see no way out. When you jam, however, it becomes the total

opposite: you end up so far into the music that a thousand-and-one possibilities spread their

wings before the eyes of your fingertips and you wouldn’t dare to waste a blissful moment for

imagining any way to move but further in.

In the moment of your jam, the shimmering ring of the crash symbol explodes in crystal

vibrancies ushering in another measure. How long have we been playing? The lightning crack of

the snare marches alongside the thunderous bass drum, filling in rhythmic voids in a time

signature you couldn't explain on a piece of paper, yet your head bobs and your foot taps all

the same for the compelling beat. Who cares how long we've been playing?! The droning wail
Jordan Griffin
TED 640

of the guitar's echo coasts astride the wave of sound, illuminating a path in the aural jungle ripe

for a thick bass line to pound through as you claw at the rough, wound strings- the vibrations

with which the guitar nosedives from like a diving board from 100 feet. No- 10,000 feet.

No- from space! Sublime. 

As the cyclical ritual continues, fingers, wrists, feet, brains, and knowing smiles work on

overdrive to: communicate, duel, spar, collide, cooperate, establish and break apart, move

independently, dependently, and independently again, act in call and response, and improvise

new possibilities through music. Here comes the crash, and here we go again!  The look of

concentration and pleasure on your face during a particularly intense groove says all we need

to know to answer my question: did you weep in sorrow and regret once the song had finished,

or did you celebrate with your bandmates at what had just transpired? The hazy dream you

dared not linger on for long in years past, as you couldn’t bear the thought, has inevitably

come.

Our own lives seem to mimic the jam in that there are highs, lows, unexpected twists

and turns, yet always to our own familiar beat and rhythm. Could this be a hint to unlocking a

hidden gem of wisdom from the next line of Black Muddy River?

I will walk alone, by the black muddy river,

And dream me a dream of my own,
I will walk alone, by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own, sing me a song of my own.
Jordan Griffin
TED 640

Perhaps by walking alone by the black muddy river, we are actually deciding to walk

without the fear of death, all while dreaming and singing dreams and songs of our very own

upon each and every expansion and compression of our lungs. Perhaps we are deciding to truly

enjoy the walk, breathing in the air, picking up a stone or a twig before tossing it, dropping it,

pocketing it, or performing whatever other piece of improvisation our inspirational muse

demands of us in that moment.

Now, equipped with this I call on you to celebrate! Celebrate the life once lived: every

lick, crescendo, riff, and beat that the groove of life had gifted. If nothing else, The Grateful

Dead’s very name suggests, no- signals like a fiery lighthouse- the very purpose of the choice

I’m suggesting for you. It is the very greatest secret I’ve learned in my time standing upon this

lunar stone. Read the name once more: Grateful. Dead. Don’t you see it now? Yes, death is that

which all creatures, from those greatest in scale to those so small that a speck of dust upon the

scale is itself a world home to many, must face. Death is the reminder to be grateful for the

moment. Be Grateful in the life you shared together, the experience you’ve gained, the

foundations have to build upon, the memories, and for the next puppy to come.

Indeed, when it seems the cursed night will last forever, know that this moment beside

your friend is just as the moment before was and is as the moment after shall be. Remember to

count the years; recount your favorite crescendos and lessons learned from the accidental

notes played out of key. Your heart very well may be severed in this moment, but if time heals

all wounds, shouldn’t this, too, pass? Go now and weep, but let the tears fall with the weight of

the bass drum that pounds on and on before walking along that river.