All of It Was Music
When two violins are placed in a room
if a chord on one violin is struck
the other violin will sound the note.
— Andrea Gibson, “Say Yes”
Maybe I had no business being there,
but it was up to me to set the tone.
Exactly one week earlier, I was holding Mom’s cold hands,
her final breath coming in the early morning hours
before we could rush over from the hotel outside Atlanta.
The hospice room, so silent,
just days after my nephew Watson,
bearing Mom’s maiden name,
serenaded her while he could.
Now the Denver ballroom was filling with voices.
Journalists, editors and publishers
from across Colorado and beyond
gathering for the annual convention.
Even knowing these two things could coincide,
I couldn’t get everything off my plate.
Even many months of planning
just can’t be sufficient preparation
for things so momentous.
So I’m welcoming, organizing, emceeing,
interviewing the Attorney General,
and, as a Southern white man, moderating a conversation
with two Black statehouse leaders
about race, media and politics.
So you chop wood, carry water.
Get your ox out of the ditch.
Let the chips fall.
And be grateful for your practice and preparation.
What else is there?
I found out.
“I probably have no business being here.”
A confessional song to start.
“I know you don’t know what to say. I wouldn’t. I don’t.
That’s okay. Say nothing or ask for details.
As long as you don’t mind my tearing up,
needing a moment or maybe temporarily rebuffing you,
it’s all welcome.”
I go back to my hotel room.
Over the Rhine’s Christmas album song
“Let It Fall” shuffles into the August night.
And the pent-up tears indeed fall
with a little confidence and grace.
Over the next three days
I watch a room full of professional skeptics
find the same key.
A leader who’d taken friendly fire
aimed at corporate parents
for the better part of a decade
kicked off Friday morning
and it felt like a homecoming, a lion’s roar,
and a healing.
Legislators teared up
talking about racism’s personal toll,
even in statehouse leadership.
I saw simmering resentments aired out,
and hugs given.
New partnerships were formed.
For Friday’s dinner, forty industry leaders
gathered to send off a colleague.
The hotel staff had forgotten the wine,
so while my staff scrambled,
we began the introductions.
One by one,
voices joined in
songs of praise—
not just for Sam,
but for all.
Bread. Stories.
Eventually, wine.
Grace notes
resounding
around the table.
My biggest misstep was not finishing
the scripting for the awards slideshow.
But Rachel had used AI to make two up-tempo odes
to the newsrooms in the room.
So there was dancing. Literal dancing.
Somehow it was the best awards show yet.
Filled with recognition
and resonance.
If grief is love without a place to go
Well then I’ve been there, you’re not alone
And if a song is worth a thousand prayers
We’ll sing ’til angels come carry you and all your cares
— Over the Rhine, “Let You Down”
Two weeks later, I joined my musician friends
on their farm in Ohio for a Labor Day weekend
of music, art, poetry
and community.
I needed that time
in the middle of Nowhere
to rest.
A key change to decompress.
To heal.
But none of this was separate.
Death. Life. Grief. Healing.
Work. Art. Practice.
Showing. Telling.
Performance. Conversation. Silence.
Community.
All of it was, well, music.
You can find music in places where you cannot find air.
— Andrea Gibson, “Stay”
Everything came to a head in August 2025.
I didn’t have the luxury of sorting it all out. I just had to be there for it.
What surprised me was how much richness there was in that. Not despite everything, but because of it.
If I ever thought mindfulness would flatten life, that month disabused me of that. It was all right there — tears, family, community, sadness, joy, stress, relief.
I tasted it all. I treasured it all.
Such bittersweet music. Such aliveness.
For all of the Over the Rhine songs referenced in this piece, as well as Andrea Gibson reading her referenced poems, see the playlist for this piece.
Thank you, Karin and Linford, for accompanying me on this journey in ways you’ll never know. And thank you, Andrea Gibson, for showing me what poetry — what an open heart — can do.
This is beautiful, Tim. I heard how you powered through during that time. Thank you for being so vulnerable.