Finding oneself is a difficult task. We often live in a world of confusion, our destiny unknown.

Troubled, we search for answers. And, if we discover them, it may be in unexpected ways, as becomes evident in . . .

The Garden Of His Dreams

     Milton Hadley was a sad man. Alone in a world he despised, he had one love—music. His fingers played an imaginary piano. And he strummed an air guitar, as he pranced though the alleys near his small flat in London.

     Tunes flowed through his mind, and he danced to the rhythm of a band only he could hear. His head moved back and forth to the beat of the drum that caused his eyes to lose focus, as he wobbled amongst neighbors who wished he would disappear.

     A mystery to all, including himself, he never acknowledged the other beings in the audience who watched his disjointed performance in disbelief. They shook their heads, as this troubled soul weaved in and out between them. He both amused and scared them.

     As darkness fell upon the neighborhood, he returned to his one bedroom domicile, cluttered with junk he collected as he wandered the streets surrounding his home. Without undressing or washing up, he crawled into his sleeping bag that rested on an old, tattered mattress he had found in a dumpster behind his apartment building.

     Tonight he slept soundly, a rare occurrence for this troubled creature. But then music, loud rumbling sounds, entered his peaceful world. He wiggled out of his bedroll, his hands moving to the tempo storming through his mind, his feet stomping in an awkward manner that made him unstable as he moved toward the bathroom.

     He threw water on his face, as his body swayed back and forth, much of it traveling to the mirror above the sink covered with dirt that obscured his pockmarked facial image. Water dribbled off the mirror, making tinny sounds as it fell into the basin and ran down the drain. He pulled a grungy towel off the bar that hung askew on the wall and rubbed his face with it.

     Another cloudy day had arrived, and once again the music in his head began to blare. His hands moved, as if conducting a 100-piece orchestra. His soiled, wrinkled jacket made waves around his arms. The music playing made no sense. This scared him, as he could not remember this ever happening before.

     He began to tremble. His whole body rocked, but it was out of sync with the music. This could not be, he thought. It did not work this way. Had he lost control? Or did he ever have it? He closed his eyes to try to regain command of the symphony that ruled his life. Then the music faded and he heard strange melodic voices, but they were not singing—just speaking.

     “Milton Hadley was a great man. We lost him all too soon. Only fifty-six, but an accomplished musician and conductor, he reached his lofty goal and performed in ‘The Garden of His Dreams’ at Buckingham Palace, before the Queen of England. To commemorate his passing a year ago, I ask you to pray with me.

      “Another note has dropped

                                 from the scale of life.

                                 But we still remember his presence,

                                 in the recreation of the music

                                 that flowed with inspiration

                                 from the depths of his soul.

                                 Let him depart the soil

                                 in which he was buried,

                                 to fly with harp-playing angels,

                                 and feel the magic of performing

                                 in heaven’s theater.

                                 Free him from all earthly responsibilities

                                 to again play in the garden of his dreams.

                                 He leaves fragrant blossoms,

                                 flowing from his melodies

                                 from which all can seek comfort.

                                 He will never be forgotten.”

     And so Milton Hadley pushed aside the torment he had taken with him to the grave and released himself from the burdens he had carried during a year in limbo. Not the poor soul he believed he had become, he could now dream of a peaceful existence in the hereafter.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.