Spring speaks to certain sense of rebirth—at least in places like Maine where inhabitants are forced to endure the bleakness that inevitably comes during winter. When life gets reduced to finding a way forward post-tragedy, then any extension of hope can serve as a stand-in for a talisman.
Writing as a central element dates back to 2002 for me. That’s when, in a job that I hated, I latched onto cultivating my craft as a writer. I wanted to become a writer and I was willing to put the work in.
After Mark was killed, writing was all I had to sort through the randomness and pain that a tragic death like his delivers to the father left behind. I initiated the process of using narrative as a tool to find a few shards of meaning from the randomness of what I’d been dealt.
For two years I’ve written and rearranged words in an effort to craft a story centered in grief and loss. I recognize that none of it provided much solace for the emotional agony I’ve been feeling. In fact, like has happened countless times over the past 17 years of writing, editorial arbiters either ignored my writing, or sent back notes that served as the publishing world’s version of the “thanks but no thanks” notice of rejection.
I’ve wanted to be a guitar player for as far back as I can remember. My memory transports me back to weekly visits to a department store in Lewiston’s downtown shopping district where I recall staring at a cheap knock-off guitar and practice amp hanging on the wall. My parents didn’t buy it for me. I was 10-years-old and learning what the Rolling Stones sang about, as in “you can’t always get what you want.”
It wouldn’t be until Mark was a baby and I was working at a prison in Indiana that I finally acquired a guitar. The ad on a bulletin board for what turned out to be a beat-up copy of the classic Gibson Les Paul offered something new to me. This first six-string only set me back $25, which at that time strained our very tight household budget. A cassette boom box served a dual purpose and became my amplifier. A classmate at the Purdue satellite campus where I was taking classes taught me a few chords. I could barely form them, but I began coaxing a few semi-melodic squawks from my instrument.
Often, someone formative in our lives tells us something that isn’t true, but it stays with us. Their motives might not even be pure, yet we internalize the falsehood. With guitars, it was a friend (he later became my best man) who for whatever reason didn’t want me to play guitar, or at least play as well as he did. In high school when he was working on his chops, I had baseball and things he didn’t. He had his guitar so apparently it became important that he convince me that “my hands were too big,” and other lies.
Decades later, I realize that he wasn’t much of a friend. Yet for years after high school, his words still lived in my head.
When we moved back home to Maine after our years in Indiana, the guitar came with us. I added a small Gorilla practice amp. My friend was home for a short visit. We got together to play guitar at his parent’s house in my former hometown. At least that’s what I thought we were doing. He played a Pixies’ song. I asked him to show me the chord progression. He got pissed at me because I was “strumming the chords” and the session devolved from there. For him, it was another chance to tell me that I couldn’t play guitar.
I don’t remember what happened to my first electric. Later, I picked up a decent Yamaha acoustic that I still own. I eventually bought my first decent electric guitar. It was a Mexican-made strat popular with some of the indie band I was a fan of during the mid-1990s, like Polvo. That cheaper foreign labor meant that my new strat cost $300 bucks less than the classic Fender version. I did score a vintage Fender tube amp though. Later, I sold both of them to finance a trip to Los Angeles where Mark was living in 2008. I don’t regret the sale and I surely treasure those California memories, now.
My trusty Yamaha acoustic.
Prior to selling the electric and my amp, I was playing as regularly as I’d ever done. I could play along with some songs on the stereo by bands like the Drive-By Truckers, Neil Young, and Teenage Fanclub. I felt like I was finally progressing as a player: still not very good but learning new things. I was a better player than I’d ever been.
Then, in 2001, 9/11 prompted Mary and I to briefly fall back into the God trap. Because I knew some chords and had a guitar, I was asked to lead a small worship/Bible group at the Vineyard church we were attending. I even got to get up in front of the congregation from time-to-time on Sunday nights with the worship band.
Writing has always pushed my guitar into the background. I’d made a commitment to the writing craft. Having put in the requisite time (see Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000-hour rule), no one could ever tell me I wasn’t a writer. Once-in-awhile I’d dust off my guitar case, pull out my Yamaha and strum a few chords imagining what might happen if I actually gave a parallel commitment to my guitar that I gave to my writing. Then, back into the case it would go to sit for months, or even years.
When Mark was killed and we spent nearly every other weekend in Providence, I left my guitar with his housemate. I think I hoped to get rid of it. William left it behind when he moved to Vermont and I tossed the case in the backseat and brought it back to Maine with the remnants of Mark’s life.
Last summer, I decided it was time to pick-up the guitar again. I signed up for lessons with an experienced musician that were being offered through the local adult ed. Then, my SI joint fritzed out. Being unable to sit for more than 10 minutes made playing the guitar (or doing anything else, save for swimming) impossible.
At the end of the summer, I opened up the case that housed my acoustic. I spread some of the resource materials I’d acquired from the lessons I didn’t get to fully embrace over the summer across my kitchen table. I started to play some chords. I surprised myself in that I knew more progressions than I thought I did. I knew my E, F, C, G, Em, and A chords and didn’t have to think about my finger positions. I also remembered most of my barre positions, too. Maybe I wasn’t as bad as my “friend” had convinced me that I’d always be when it came to cradling a guitar.
Starting this fall, I set a goal to play every day. More often than not, I’d find 15, 20, or even an hour’s worth of time to play. I started watching YouTube videos of some other experienced guitar player teaching a song, or conducting full-blown lessons. One of these online gurus offered this piece advice about practice: frequency over duration. That resonated with me. Instead of trying to jam for two hours on the weekend after not playing for a week or longer, finding a few blocks of time each day seemed to work. Often, I’ll spend 30 to 45 minutes before I head out to tutor to go through a few songs and practice my scales.
Practicing pentatonics.
Last week, I realized that I actually understood what a longtime guitar teacher named Steve Stine was holding court about chord theory and I-IV-V progressions via his online videos. You’ll never hear me play and say about me, “this guy’s amazing.” But I’m actually making weekly progress as a player.
In the past, I would think about playing the guitar, but would dismiss actually doing it to write, or work on a blog post. I think I feared if I didn’t write every single day that somehow, I’d forget how to write.
I have no idea where my guitar playing will go or if it will ever result in me doing anything more than playing at home. I do know that I’m finding it meaningful. In fact, it’s the first activity since Mark was killed that consistently brings me some joy. Often, if my day is feeling “shitty,” I’ll take out my guitar, tune it, and start playing. I always feel better.
On my guitar wish list.
By accident, I’ve discovered that my guitar offers something that writing and most people don’t. Sitting there on the stand, or resting in its case, waiting to be picked up and played, my guitar gently speaks to me, offering enjoyment and something more.