ME AND MY GUITAR

I’ve been practicing the guitar for about 15 years. I use the term “practicing” because I’m pretty certain what I pour into it and painstakingly churn out doesn’t amount to actually playing the guitar. Though I once thought it important to be at least slightly proficient, I’m not sure that matters anymore. It’s something I always wanted to do. Ages ago a friend introduced me to the basics, and I’ve been putting them to work ever since. Off and on as time turned into all these years, I’ve caught the “pick it up and play it bug” and slowly added to my repertoire of almost plucking out a few different tunes. But I’m far from fluid. Mostly I tend to play the same thing over and over until I get frustrated and/or distracted and plunk the guitar down to follow my fancy.

I still have the vision, though. You know the one. Casually reaching for the guitar, which is like a lady in waiting — conveniently in arms reach, at the perfect moment when I’m surrounded by friends and family. In my mind, I pick up a tune and take it into the night, while everyone sways and sings; or maybe quietly listens around a fire. I’ve had a few of those moments in my life. I remember every one — always with others carrying the chords. I reveled being in the audience, but always channeled the performer, thinking maybe some of their abilities might be contagious. I’m not sure why, really. I always froze at piano recitals when I was little. And then in college there was a brief stint in the modern dance department, but being on stage had pretty much the same effect on me — I forgot my moves. Those were the closest I came to performing anything in front of anyone — that and the time when I first started playing the six-string. I was at a party comprised of professional musicians; symphony members and staff. Someone caught wind I’d taken up the guitar and asked me to play something. I remember sitting on a stool someone conveniently provided and completely seizing while everyone looked on in anticipation and probably more than a little amusement. I think the host of the party, also an accomplished musician, and her husband picked the ill-fated tune — along with the party — up off the floor and played with flourish as I sat perched on my pedestal of shame.

I’ve taken a few lessons. Maybe finding the right guitar instructor is something like finding the right doctor, or psychologist. It’s difficult to feel comfortable and groove with just anyone. Personalities matter, especially when it comes to what I’ve come to learn as the deeply varying outlooks and approaches to searching out a tune and producing meaningful music from it. So I’m still looking for the right fit; packing the instrument up every time we move. I love taking my guitar places. It’s so portable. The idea of having it near when inspiration strikes is something I savor, so I indulge my musical fantasies by bringing it along in our “hold” baggage versus the household goods whenever I can.

This particular, and I imagine every beloved, guitar has been on quite a journey, actually. I think my mother-in-law bought it for my husband second-hand when he was in high school. He graciously acquiesced and gave it to me when he saw how I lovingly fondled it. It took years before I began to hold it close; a few more before I worked up the courage to caress it. Now, like a toy taken for granted, I schlep it behind me whenever we move or travel. The case is completely kaputt — rode hard and put away wet as my Dad would say — although it doesn’t have any of those cool destination stickers plastered about as evidence of its adventurous life.

I think someday one of the kids will be inspired by my feeble attempts and relieve me from my torment; although I guess I don’t feel very conflicted about not playing very well, anymore. Maybe the bug I caught from others will get passed on to my children, and one or all of them will begin strumming themselves. I leave the guitar on a stand out in the open in case any one wants to noodle around with it. Occasionally they do. If one of the kids picks it up, literally and figuratively, not only will the guitar continue its colorful journey, but it (I feel badly referring to it as IT) and I will come full circle. The guitar in someone elses' capable hands performing — me somewhere in the audience, large or small. Because I think maybe I’m a much more talented and prolific listener. Meanwhile, I’ll keep practicing.