It Is Elemental

It Is Elemental

by Matthew Denman

“Matt, if you could have your way, you’d buy a big piece of land, build a dozen houses, and move your whole family and all your friends there.”— my wife, once

She’s right. And it’s no surprise that many of the world’s great religions envision a kind of togetherness—an eternal communion of souls.

I don’t dream of a commune. But I do dream of a community. Not one defined by shared walls, but by shared work. A community of people who are living, creating, struggling—together—to help young people thrive.

And while I may never be wealthy enough to buy that land and build those houses, I’ve discovered something else: My personal history has given me a deep well of persistence and passion. And I have yet to find its bottom.

At the bottom of the periodic table, there is a strange group of elements. They don’t last. They decay in milliseconds. But under rare and special conditions—with great effort, abundant resources, and powerful forces—Something astonishing is created. Something precious. Something unbelievably rare.

Years ago, I was hired for one of my first jobs in music education. At one of my first meetings, someone in leadership said, with pride: “We are unapologetically elitist.”

My heart sank. Because if we are going to help children—if we are going to help anyone—That cannot be who we are.

A Life in the Margin

For so much of my early life, we were struggling.

I remember when a classmate’s parents told her not to date me—because I came from a “broken family.” But I found solace in music.I wrote constantly: a cappella songs, piano sketches, guitar improvisations.

I’ve even seen old recordings of my music where the composer is listed as Anonymous. Honestly, that’s fine. I’m not too eager to take credit for the music I wrote when I was twelve.

But music is where I first started to feel significant. It offered me both a way out—and a way forward.

My local church donated a piano and delivered it to our government-subsidized apartment. They asked only one thing: “Never sell it.”

This is the actual piano that was donated to me when I was a child. I never sold it, as promised. Now, I’ve begun to repurpose its keys—giving them as gifts to those who have made a profound impact on my life and the lives of others.

Local business owners—people I didn’t even know—would pick me up and drive me to private lessons. At fourteen, I was a bit pretentious. I thought learning to read music might limit my art and my heart.

My piano teacher was extraordinary. One day, she handed me a manila folder. Inside was a certificate: I had won the state composition contest.

I hadn’t even known I had entered. She had taken the time to transcribe my pieces and submit them—without telling me.

My Sister

The composition that won the state contest was written for my sister.

She is kind, strong, a fierce friend—a protector and provider. She bought me clothes and school supplies, and gave me a thousand small kindnesses I’m sure a self-absorbed preteen was too blind to notice. She did it because our father never paid a dime of child support. And because our mother was very sick with congestive heart failure and needed a heart transplant.

She carried more than any child should have to carry. And she still does.

She has also at times been afflicted by severe mental illness. I love her so much.

There’s a word for when someone harms themselves. I’ve looked it up, but the clinical term feels too clean for what I’ve seen.Her arms… it’s hard and painful to describe. So many scars. So much self-hatred.

Whatever the voices are saying—they are not kind.

Over time, my mind has blotted out certain memories, like top secret documents, redacted beyond recognition. Whole chapters hidden behind closed doors and in deep, dark woods.And somewhere along the path, a signpost that reads: Do you really want to go there… again?

For the record: I do not.

But I want to remember enough. Enough to keep my compassion alive. Enough to keep my passion burning.

The Night Everything Changed

My mother’s health continued to deteriorate. I had been sent to visit family when a heart became available—tragically, through suicide. A young man’s heart. This world does not make sense.

I began the journey back immediately.

Halfway back, family friends met us on the road and drove me the rest of the way. That was a great kindness—and a much more compassionate atmosphere.

We arrived at the University hospital at 2 a.m. I remember getting off the elevator: scared, exhausted, my mind in overdrive. Where was I going to live? People with the best intentions had offered me a place to stay, but the conversations had been bleak and morose.

I remember the awful light. The sterile tiles. My eyes fixed on the floor, retracing every hospital visit, every doctor’s conversation—each one trying not to offer false hope.

I felt like prey.

There was a strange acceptance of my fate. I had worried until I could not worry anymore. Now, I was just playing the last part of a predetermined role. Mother and son’s final act.

A Mighty Sound

Because of moments like these, I have often imagined my mother’s funeral.When I saw the grandiosity of Queen Elizabeth’s funeral—with all the meticulous planning and pageantry—I thought, That’s what Mom deserves.

For those who know her, she is an angel. She says “Bless your heart” all the time—and means it.

I imagine a full church, filled with family, friends, and admirers.And I greet them by saying:

“Dear family and friends, we all have something very beautiful in common.”“We were all loved by Vicki Denman.”

And it will be true.

And Then—Music

Flickering lights and fear bring me back to the moment. As we round a corner, I become aware of a sound—like a radio in the distance.

The sound grew louder. It became a voice. Then voices. Then praise.

A large waiting room appeared in the distance. It was full of people. Standing room only. At 2 a.m. on a Tuesday.

They were singing.

Someone saw me, and the singing stopped. “Matt is here!”

A line formed.And then came the hugs. So many hugs.Endless words of encouragement, comfort, and hope.

My sister Angie appeared with a message: Mom had awakened from surgery. Not just a surgery. A heart transplant.

And she had asked to see me.

I walked into the recovery room. I couldn’t even see her at first—there were so many tubes, so many cables. And it was loud. Machines humming and beeping, keeping my mother alive.

I approached slowly, cautiously.

When I finally saw her face, she barely opened her eyes. But she looked at me.

Her hand twitched in effort. I gently reached for it.

And she squeezed.

A Devotee Was Forged

There is not a moment in my life that I return to more often than that one. The overwhelming feelings of helplessness, hopelessness, sadness, worthlessness. I do not want to forget them. I must not forget them.

Then—the music.

I honestly don’t remember what they were singing. But they were singing.

Why, in that moment, were they singing?

They had all come to support my mother and my family. They had all come with profound worry and a fool’s hope. But they were not foolish.

There was something so deeply human. They were unified in spirit and in purpose.

And the sound, the sight, the intention of it—It caused the unfathomable weight of the darkness I had been carrying for so long to drain out of me in a torrent.

The relief of not being alone. The relief of knowing I would not be homeless. That I would not be loveless. That I had not been forgotten.

For a moment—a pivotal moment—I was not in torment.

That is what music is to me.

And that night, one of music’s—and community’s—most staunch devotees was forged.

On Elitism

So no, I am not proudly elitist. Elitism is a cancer and a heart disease. It affects how you see others and interpret world events. It is driven by narcissism and devoid of compassion.

When I used to teach, I would draw a diagram on the board.

On the far left, I wrote: Low Self-EsteemOn the far right, I wrote: Arrogance

Then I would ask my students:What are the characteristics of someone who lives at either extreme?

Low Self-Esteem:

• Self-critical

• Withdrawn or avoidant

• Overly apologetic

• Easily manipulated

• Downplays accomplishments

• Fears failure so much they stop trying

  
  

Arrogance:

• Boastful

• Dismissive of others

• Never admits fault

• Always needs to be right

• Looks down on others

• Seeks constant validation

  
  

Both come from a perversion of our perceived reality.

They are distortions. And yet, they are often misattributed as natural outcomes of two actual virtues: humility and confidence.

But humility is not self-hatred.And confidence is not superiority.

Humility and Confidence

Humility:

• Values others

• Teachable

• Respects boundaries

• Grateful

• Leads without ego

  
  

Confidence:

• Secure in ability

• Speaks with clarity

• Accepts failure

• Lifts others

• Acts with courage

  
  

One might not think they go together. But they do.

What Music Can Do

When we are drawn to music because of low self-esteem or arrogance, we are often attracted to elitism—to being the best, being praised, proving ourselves, proving others wrong.

But when we are drawn to music because of humility and confidence, we are attracted to what music can do—through service, through community, through healing, through shared joy.

Elitism and being elite are not the same. One is rooted in exclusion. The other describes someone at the top of their field.

Our motivations matter. They guide our path. And they keep us from leaving a sea of destruction in our wake.

The Hero’s Journey

Excellence is beautiful.But it should be measured individually.

I’m wired by sports games from the ’90s. I loved when you could “Create Your Own Player.”But if you gave yourself a 99 on everything… the game got boring.

There was no challenge. No failure. No sacrifice. No story.

And without story, accomplishments have little meaning.

As Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 13:1:

“If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.”

Without love, we are noise.

Even Socrates taught that music must serve the harmony of the whole person. Too much technique without soul creates imbalance—within people, and within society.

Final Word

We were not made to impress each other. We were made to express. To serve.

To connect.

That is what music is to me.

That is what community is to me.

That is what Leyenda is to me.

Pepe Romero and Mark Whitfield at Oklahoma City University during the Leyenda Convention.

Author’s Note

by Matthew Denman

This piece is deeply personal. It’s a reflection on where I come from, why I do this work, and what I believe music—and community—can do.

I am a guitarist, educator, and founder of the Leyenda Foundation, an organization dedicated to building a more compassionate, accessible, and transformative music education ecosystem. From young students to world-renowned artists, our work centers people, not prestige. It is about connection, not competition.

Over the years, I’ve been lucky to collaborate with mentors and icons who believed in me when I had very little reason to believe in myself. This story—and everything I build—is in service of that legacy. I share it now not because it is easy to tell, but because it matters. And because someone, somewhere, might need to hear it.

If this moved you in any way, I invite you to learn more about our mission, our programs, and how you can be part of this growing community.

👉 www.leyendafoundation.com

📧 matthew@leyendafoundation.com

📞 (405) 535-7940