Today, I picked up a guitar, and let my husband teach me four chords.
It was a momentous occassion.
You’ve got to understand. I have a HISTORY with guitars.
Both of my parents play guitar. In the seventies, they had a folk rock band, and I would fall asleep (or not) to the sound of them and my “aunties and uncles” rehearsing Honeytree in the living room. Sometimes, my father would take the Martin out of its powder-blue case and sing silly songs with me. Or my mom would pick it up, and I’d listen, entranced, as she sang love songs to Jesus.
No one can sing quite like my mother, like the sound comes straight from the depths of her heart, still warm and sweet and deep, like fresh-baked bread slathered with butter and honey.
To me, guitars have always sounded like security, like comfort, like warmth.
But not when I touched them!
My parents gave me a guitar for my 12th birthday. I learned a couple chords, but they hurt my hands, and my fingers could never find the positions. The buzzing was the worst. I could never get it to sound right.
So I quit.
Have I ever mentioned, I REALLY hate not being naturally good at something I want to do?
In college, I picked up a guitar again. I was a voice major, and needed one semester to fill my requirements.
I could play individual notes just fine, but struggled to chord through “Shenandoah.”
Yeah, that’s right. Thousands of dollars for college, to learn to play “Shenandoah.” Badly.
I got through the class with a “C,” and foisted the guitar off on one of my cousins.
I couldn’t stand the sound of my own struggle, my musical imperfection. I couldn’t stand being in process.
Fast forward 18 years, a whole other lifetime. I’ve spent most of it married to an incredible music teacher. I’ve spent all of it studiously ignoring the guitars lying around our house.
Until tonight.
My fingertips are sore.
My sloppy tone set my teeth on edge.
I didn’t like having to apply pressure to the fretboard.
It all felt very, very unnatural.
But I am doing it anyway.
While I’m at it, I am going back and re-examining some old beliefs.
I am good at guitar, for such a beginniner.
My hands are strong enough to do this.
So what if there are already plenty of people around me who play guitar, so I don’t really need to? Maybe I need to play my own song. Maybe they need to hear it.
Sure, it would be easier to crawl back to the safe, comfortable familiarity of the keyboard. But where’s the growth in that? Besides, it seems I’m always struggling to find female guitar players for events I’m worship leading.
I am DONE not playing guitar.
I am done being intimidated.
I am done shrinking back from my own shortcomings, my own failures, my own imperfections.
I am done being afraid of living in process.
I am done with believing myself too weak.
Yes, I think guitar is the perfect instrument for me to pick up at this phase of my life.
I’m stepping into the next 18 years with a guitar strapped on my back.
I suck at guitar. I try every few years and then go back to the piano which is so much easier for me. I really wanted to learn to play the banjo, so my wife got me one for my birthday in September. I still haven’t tuned it. Maybe I’ll do that now. Thanks for sharing this.
With ya there! Guitar is hard! But this time, I refuse to be beaten by a chunk of wood and a couple strings.
My uncle plays a bit of banjo, and people keep asking my husband if he teaches it–I think it’s fun how it has become a “thing” again. Bluegrass resurgence!
Good on ya, Jen! Those fingertips will stop hurting soon, and you’ll wonder where all that tenderness went.
For a long time, all I knew were the same four chords Gordon Lightfoot knows. Then I started working with the high school group and another leader played guitar and led the singing. I asked her if I could stand behind her with my cheap second hand guitar and just watch what she did and strum along. She was very gracious and showed me a few things. Eventually I became the worship leader for the whole church for a while.
Stick with it, kiddo.
Tim
Thanks Tim! Amazing how far four chords will get you, huh?
YOU GO GIRL!!!
Thanks Daddy!
I learned to play guitar when I was 22, the first year I was living in Duluth. I also hate not being naturally good at something and always considered myself not to be “musically inclined.” But when I inquired about guitar lessons, the woman giving them was persistent enough about following up that I gave in because I felt bad about saying no after all of that. It was the best decision I could have made, and I think it literally saved my sanity that first lonely year.
I hardly ever pick it up anymore, and I was never proficient at it (interestingly, I had trouble with individual notes or ‘finger picking’ and found chords much easier). But I finally got to hold a guitar in my arms and know how to use it. I reminded myself it was never too late to learn something I’d always wanted to learn. I wrote a dozen songs or so, things I needed to express at the time. And although I wish I could still get myself to pick it up, and I’m embarassed to have lost my callouses and at how rusty I’d be if I tried to play again, in some ways, I know it came into my life at the right time and did what it needed to do.
I imagine a guitar could suit you. Enjoy your journey!
Ha–well, bless that woman for hounding you!
It is interesting how certain people or things come into our lives at just the right times. Guitars are a great instrument for songwriting and self-expression, and I’m sure I’ll get to the point where twiddling on it is soothing, instead of aggravating.
Yay for you. One (feels like) giant step at a time!
Thanks Sarah!