It’s been a few months since I’ve picked up my classical guitar. Arthritis. It makes it difficult. I wouldn’t exactly call arthritis a new friend, but I’m learning to live with it.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m using arthritis as an excuse. I could still pick up the guitar and see what my hands can do. I’ve never been much of a guitar player. Most of the time, I played for myself. That was enough.
A while ago I wrote a story called “Carrying the Guitar Through Life.” I was trying to put into words what it had meant to have the guitar to hold at certain times in my life. It served me well.
I’ve played guitar, off and on, since high school. I’ve stopped before. This is the first time I’ve wondered whether I’ve already played for the last time. I may pick it up again. I’d be glad if I did. And if I don’t, that’s okay, too. The season has changed.
For now, the guitar will stay in the room where I write and pray and make things. It’s a silent friend these days. I like having it there. At some point, the guitar itself will leave the room. I can let that happen in its own time.
I’m beginning to see the guitar as a doorway. I thought I’d have to do something to cross the threshold. Maybe I’m just beginning to recognize that I already have.
Maybe the guitar still belongs in the room. But I don’t have to hold it so tightly.
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Quiet Readings
These occasional reflections are part of Quiet Readings, a gathering place for noticing, wondering, and making room for what life brings.
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