I’ve been taking guitar lessons on and off for a little over a year. My progress is slow and not altogether steady, but it’s progress nonetheless, especially considering I didn’t know one, single chord when I began. So far, it’s been both rewarding and frustrating. While it is possible, it’s definitely difficult to teach an old dog new tricks, and time ain’t stopping for this forty year old.
This week, I began learning a new strumming pattern during my lesson, and as is usually the case when I’m learning something new, I doubted my ability. My teacher showed me the pattern, played it with me, then had me play it alone. (Oh, the monotony! How does he not get bored to tears?) I asked him how I’d ever be able to play it and sing at the same time considering my concentration was solely focused on counting. He suggested I talk to my kids while playing it at home, then the pattern would become muscle memory.
And like always, I doubted.
But I’ve learned to trust my teacher. I’ve learned that if I do what he says and put in the work time, the lesson will eventually pay off. After all, I can play and sing through an entire song now (albeit slowly), which I couldn’t do a few, short months ago. He knows—and I’m learning—that certain guitar exercises produce certain outcomes.
If only all of life worked that way.
Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how hard we work, how much effort we put forth, or how many suggestions we follow, the outcome isn’t what we hoped for. We can dedicate years to preparing for something we desire (a hope, a dream, an expectation) only to have it crushed with a solitary conversation.
What follows the heartbreak is a long, grieving process. Eventually it subsides into an occasional pang of jealousy in the pit of the stomach or a silent tear slipping down the cheek when we see someone else doing what we worked so hard to achieve.
Then, what?
I don’t know. I won’t lie: it’s difficult to sit in an audience and watch someone else sing. It’s been twenty, long months since I was the one singing. I’m not sure what one does when the grieving is over. Maybe it’s enough to recognize that the desire to even sit in an audience and listen to someone else doing what I love is progress. I’m not sure there are any guarantees, but progress produces hope.
