The Harp

Our mother, Barbara, was an accomplished Harpist in her youth. When going through her personal effects, upon her passing in the Fall of 2007, we came across this letter tucked neatly in a folder. The note was from Roark Barron and their story follows.

Bob & Tim Thompson

Hand in hand we rushed out into the bright San Francisco morning. The fog was all gone from the night before. We were not far from

Fisherman’s Wharf where we had spent the night at a friend’s third-story flat. Devan, my four year old son whose hand I held,

was excited to go to the street art festival where he sold his crayon drawings for a quarter while I plucked and strummed on my concert grand Pedal Harp, playing for tips and offering my

original composition recordings for sale. We were so happy because now I could play the harp full-time and

Devan was able to sell his art and spend time away from childcare. We could do this together. I could earn more money

doing this than I made at my old job as a North Beach waiter, and that felt like I made it big—being paid to do what I loved.

The Letter…

We turned the corner of Van Ness, and up this side street to a private parking lot where I had parked the truck with the harp inside, I was extra careful to

park off the main road in a more secluded area. As we approached the back of the camper, Devon first noticed broken glass and the purple velvet cloths we used in our set-up as a back-drop, lay scattered on the ground.

As I rushed forward I found the door broken and the harp was gone! My beloved 50 year-old, magical golden instrument that had redefined my life was MISSING! To add to that, it was not even mine to loose.

Two years earlier, doing my job sweeping the chimney of a Santa Fe, New Mexico home, I met a kind lady who had a fine folk harp

resting against her fireplace. This stranger, upon learning of my love of all things harp related, told me of a fine Concert Pedal Harp

she had not played since she was a young lady, many years before. Barbara was her name. She offered me the use of her harp

if I was willing to restring and fix up a little bit.

A harp this fine was rare and, to a poor chimney sweep, opened up new worlds

With great delight, I refreshed the harp and began my fledgling harpist career, playing in churches, at weddings, and gallery

openings

Barbara graciously gave permission for me to take the grand harp to San Francisco. I played on sidewalks, at parks, gardens, and in

outdoor passageways. I often thought of this lady who had extended her hand to me, a little known, inexperienced musician

with big dreams. She was my guiding spirit—my Harp Godmother.

We played in San Francisco for the better part of a year.

It was her harp that I lost. Without that instrument, I felt as if I had died. I was adrift, my sound

body stolen from me. As if in a dream, my hands trembling, I called Barbara and told her of this nightmare. I listened carefully

for a response.Harp godmother told me all was O.K... No one was hurt. Devan and I

were unharmed and things such as harps can be replaced. This helped, yet I still felt my identity was in that Harp or at least I

came through that harp. The Harp…that was truly how I expressed myself.

Shortly thereafter, Devan re-entered childcare and I returned to my job at the North Beach Restaurant earning enough in 3 months to return to Santa Fe. I loaded up the camper, lighter this time, and began the

journey home. Entering Arizona, we discovered a stark desert landscape near Sedona, etched by a full moon. I found myself sitting

on rocks, pretending I was playing the lost harp, feeling it leaning against my right shoulder and hearing its sweet plucked sounds.

It was then I realized the harp was ME. That, even if I never heard another harp, the music was within me. I could make music by

clacking two rocks together or string rubber bands over a cardboard box. I could pluck, strum and hum away to my hearts content. It made me cry, because the lost was found. Never far

away, yet perhaps so close I forgot to look there.

A few day later, just a couple of weeks before Christmas, I made it all the way around the circle and back to Santa Fe.

The whiteout snowstorm I arrived in was so intense I missed the off-ramp at

Old Pecos Road near my home. Funny and appropriate that on such a wintry day that I sought Zia Road, the Spanish word for ‘sun’, where

Barbara lived. Armed with the biggest bouquet of flowers I could find, I made it to Barbara’s cozy, warm home to thank her for all she had done

and to return the tuning key of the lost harp.

She welcomed me warmly. To my great surprise, she insisted that I leave with the gift of her only other harp, the one by the fireplace that had begun our conversation years earlier. It was a beautiful

Harp from Paraguay. She acquired it when she lived in South America.

As the snow and darkness fell, all I could feel was warmth.

That was 23 years ago. Devan is all grown up now and music has become my main career

with success beyond my expectations. The Paraguayan Harp is still with me today, as are five other harps. Big ones, little ones, electric pedal harps and even a giant harp played by the wind.

Harps are like my shadow and follow me wherever I go. Yet, we must not forget that shadows are not us. The shadows come from the

moves we make from within and the dance of light and dark follows our lead.

Heartbreak over a loss of things can trick us. We create our own play of light and shadows. Harps, like all things, come and go and are lost and found. Yet the music that flows through the strings can

never be muted. One cannot lose that which was never lost.

I am grateful to all Harp Godmothers out there who show us that love and believing our dreams is as real as anything we can become or do. I lost my Harp in San Francisco. I found my heart in Santa Fe.

Roark Barron

Photo: Roark playing at the Thompson family reunion, July 2008

Photo: Roark atHome in Santa Fe

Photo: Roark & his worlds largest ‘Wind Harp’

Leave Beauty Where you PassSong: Fire & IceRoarkbarron.com