Kevin Brock, my friend remembered

When I woke up this morning, I was sure that all my thoughts would be dedicated to the presidential election. Then, as I was playing with my son Rowan, our friend Candice called and asked if we had received a phone call from the father of my friend Casey. We hadn’t.

And my friend told me that Kevin Brock, Casey’s husband, died in his sleep Sunday night.

I exploded in tears, as did my wife Maia. I could only moan, “no, no, no,” for many minutes as we consoled each other. Our poor son had no idea what was going on as Maia and I tried to strike some semblance of a balance between sadness for our souls and strength for our boy.

Our thoughts immediately turned to Casey. She and Kevin have been together for eight years and were married just two weeks ago. Maia is with her as I write this. Casey is a spiritual giant; even in her deep sorrow she can see through material existence to ponder quite clearly and knowingly why Kevin was taken from her at this most momentous stage in their lives. And she is now understanding things about their relationship to each other and the universe that I don’t think I will ever fathom.

I do have my own beliefs regarding life and death, but they’ve been rendered meaningless right now as I have to allow myself to grieve and feel the deep sorrow for a community and this world being without Kevin as we’ve all known him. His energy lives on; that, I’m certain of.  Anyone who has ever been fortunate enough to know Kevin is certain that his energy is all around.

I met Kevin several years ago when Maia befriended Casey and all of us became friends and part of the Chapel Hill Intentional Living Institute, where I grew by leaps and bounds thanks to Kevin, Casey, and other friends–Shirley and Chris Saade. Intentional and living are good words to describe Kevin. So are passionate, generous, creative, inspirational, brilliant, musical genius, musical mystic, the best percussionist I’ve ever heard, and a friend who will be sorely, sorely missed by so many people.

The last time I played music with Kevin was two years ago, nearly to the day, at the Carrboro Music Festival. Maia was six months pregnant with Rowan, and we haven’t played music since. The other member of our group was Paul Ford, who, when I spoke to him today, told me that he had just been playing some of our songs. And I started weeping because I realized, selfishly, that I’ll never play music with Kevin again. We had hoped to get the band back together several times but there was always something to prevent us–a sick baby, travel, work, family, general tiredness. But really, it was my own procrastination. I’m ashamed that these excuses kept me from experiencing one more time the intense passion of Kevin’s playing and his being. When he played drums, my God, the Earth shook. He took our music to a level I never knew could exist. And as Paul said at Kevin and Casey’s wedding, one show at the Pittsboro General Store was the best show I’ve ever been a part of. It was so uplifting. And it was Kevin who shot us into outer space. He pushed me, merely by playing and looking at me and smiling at me and telling me with his whole soul to “play harder, Mark, play faster, feel it, feel it, let go, let go of yourself,” . . . and as I did, I felt a high higher than ever before. Kevin took our music and made it more powerful than I could have possibly imagined.

Kevin, it must be said, is a jedi master.

Today, Paul told me that my boy Rowan has Kevin’s rhythms pulsating through his veins from our last show when Ro was in the womb. And our son is a musical dynamo. He dances whenever he hears music. He played the drums when he was five months old. He begs us to play the guitar for him and then is disappointed because my playing is so lousy. When Maia teaches music to toddlers, Rowan conducts the kid orchestra, encouraging his little friends to join him in the musical ecstasy. Heck, when NPR plays interlude music, Rowan dances different kinds of dances depending on the music. This is Kevin in my son. I know it. It’s not me. It’s Maia. It’s Paul. It’s Kevin. It’s God.

To say I will miss Kevin is too small of a statement. I will remember him whenever I hear music. I will remember him whenever I play music. I will remember him when I am true to my own art. For Kevin, I must tell you, was an artist. And when I’d tell him about a writing idea, he’d tell me how much he loved to hear it. He would say so with such intentionality and passion and humility.

I am heartbroken, especially for Casey, her family, and Kevin’s family. But I do know how to carry on. And that is to be true to myself, my art, and my love for those dearest to me.

Oh my friend, Kevin. You were born one day before me. We struggled in many the same ways in life. You transformed yourself into something beyond what I can even fathom for my own self. But I can feel you now. I know who you are. And I will never forget.