Accidental Music

A ski accident had brought me to this place.  My left arm and shoulder were immobilized and for the next couple of months I could only move my left hand – the rest of my arm had to stay in place to heal.  Forget skiing - I could no longer practice yoga, write my book, use a keyboard ….  My new wardrobe consisted of baggy button-down shirts.  It was a time of deep distress for me until I saw that my left arm – slung in a perpetually raised position - looked like I should be holding the neck of a guitar. 

I have wanted to play the guitar for a very long time; to be that person who was making the music instead of listening with admiration and singing along as my brother strummed with abandon and friends played Crosby Stills songs around the fireplace.   Many years had passed and I never followed through on my desire.  My inner dialogue went something like this… Only certain people have musical talent, and I am not one of them.  The other side of me said…  I should turn this accident around and learn to play the guitar.   I hesitated, full of self-doubt, …  Will I be able to do this? I don’t even know how to read music.  Yet, after the initial idea, my mind kept coming back to it strongly enough to make the three-and-a-half-hour trip to a guitar store in Phoenix and spend the money.

At the music store I turned myself over to the guitar sage, who sized up my arm situation and led me to a rack of ¾ sized Martin guitars.  Lifting down the one with the prettiest wood pattern, I saw that guitars have only six strings, which I took as a good sign for someone with no musical training.  How hard could it be to learn six strings, I asked myself.  Playing a musical instrument would be totally new for me, but the expert at the store assured me that I did not have to know how to read music, “Here is a music book with chords – you’ll be playing songs within days.” 

I resolved my doubts by telling myself, with so many people on this earth playing the guitar, how hard can it really be? 

It was so hard it nearly broke my brain.  But I kept at it every day, torturing Glen in the winter and the animals in our yard when it got warm enough to play in the sunshine. Soon, three chord songs like “Sloop John B” did not satisfy - I wanted more.  The songs I wanted to sing were more complex and required individual music notes as well as chords.  I needed to learn to read music, a new language for me.  Learning that language is arguably harder for guitarists because any given note on the guitar can be played on different strings of the instrument. I also needed to know the most efficient way to play the note and then transition fast enough to the next note so that it sounded like real music.  During those wobbly first months my fingertips bled, and I despaired more about my music than my lack of arm function. 

At the beginning the challenge of learning to play the guitar seemed too much; there were daily low-lows, occasional middle-middles and rare high-highs.  Oh the elation when I could play a decent Southern Cross.  I have been playing guitar for over a year now, and it is still hard.  On my worse days, when I finger the wrong string or forget to play the sharp, I console myself that a year ago, I couldn't have done this.  On my best days, I close my eyes and sing along with so much heart that nothing else matters but those three and a half minutes of flowing music.