The beautiful, shiny, wood acoustic stood there, in its case, still closed upright before me. The case I had personalized by smothering it over top with stickers and pictures of my friends, family, and hobbies.
A short, black bar stool squatted next to the big case. Oddly enough the only light was that shining from two spotlights, one on the stool and the other on the beautifully creative case.
Tentatively, I reached forward, unsnapped the clasp at the head, neck, middle and body of the case, smiling in anticipation as the metal pieces clanked apart. The front half opened without so much as a creak, and there it was. Just as I had left it, dusted, shining, and so perfect.
My head turned to glance in all directions, but since it was so dark I could not tell if anyone sat watching – if anyone waited to listen to the fruits of my self instruction, my hard work, my life.
It had taken me two years to get this far, and even now I did not dare try comparing myself with others more practiced than I. It did not matter much, anyway; I was set and determined to learn anything and everything about this instrument.
Slowly, carefully, I wrapped my fingers around the neck and gently lifted it out of its velvety encasement. My arms and hands fit just as perfectly around my acoustic friend as my legs were the perfect length for the bar stool upon which I sat.
My mind wandered back to the first day I had made the decision to learn a few chords. I remembered how hard it was; how complicated to strum, how impossible to reach the different bars with my short fingers; how frustrated I became after the first thirty minutes of attempting. How I had wanted to chuck the guitar across the room and flush that darned red pick down the toilet!
A smile stole across my face. Just seeing how far I had come since those two years made me feel practiced, in tune.
As I set my left hand fingers in place and grabbed that faithful red pick out of my pocket with my right hand, familiarity washed over me, and in a manner of three seconds I was lost to the real word, enveloped in my own.
For old times’ sake I started out at a slow pace, but soon forgot myself in the speedy strumming, whamming, plucking and sliding on the steel strings. How amazing it felt! I let myself be overcome with the many beats and rhythms I thrummed as the minutes whizzed by.
At last, after I do not know how long, my arms ached and my fingers cramped, and it was all I could do to halt the exhilarating joyride. But, even though my hands no longer created any beautiful, coordinated noise, an endless stream of music continued floating along through my head.
*based off a kind of day/dream I had quite awhile ago. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it 🙂
**I’ve no idea who painted that picture (I snagged it off the ‘net) but KUDOS to whoever did because it’s flippin’AMAZING!