Eating Elephants

Back in 2020 I picked up my first guitar and made a solemn promise to myself from that day forward I would continue down a path of learning with that musical instrument. Nothing was special about this specific guitar. It was dingy, the quality of sound was very poor and the strings were in pretty bad condition but it was after all my grandmothers guitar, thank you YaYa.

What I’m about to say next is going to sound incredibly callous and very heartless but I do think my grandma would at least find it funny. If I remember correctly, when she passed the instrument off to me as my own, she made a statement that it belonged to my grandfather and something along the lines of “Good riddance! Get the damn thing out of my house.” I won’t get into too many details of their relationship but if you can catch a hint from the statement above, needless to say it was a bit of a rocky one.

I held that guitar in my arms and for the first time came to grips with what it might be like to struggle along a path of learning this instrument. My left hand clumsily placing itself on strings that showed no semblance of real musical tone to it. Trying to grow some kind of dexterity to be able to shift my fingers from chord to chord. My finger tips burning as callouses began to take shape. The waist of the guitar gently nestled onto my lap. It sounded terrible at first but it was a promise I made to myself nonetheless.

I always had this keen fascination with watching rockstars smash their guitars to bits up on stage. Countless thoughts would flood through my mind as to why they would do such a thing to their beloved instrument that could pull at the heart strings of millions. An instrument that could create a vibrancy of love and fill in the void of empty words. An instrument that could bring people to their knees and make them tremble as a beautiful tone radiates out of its sound hole. One day I went out into my back yard and smashed the guitar that my grandmother had given me to bits. I wasn’t mad, nor did I have some sort of pent up aggression that needed to escape through a release valve. I suppose I just wanted to see what all the rave was about and why those rockstars did what they did. Later that night I had one hell of a bonfire and burned the guitar in it as well.

Now I know this all sounds rather cruel to do to something that someone as cherished as their grandmother would give to them. Yet, I can’t help but look back at that day and respond to it now as a right of passage. I was getting rid of whatever negative energy had been bottled up in that guitar from my grandmothers turbulent relationship with my grandfather. However, I was completely engaged in the process of wanting to learn how to play and that same guitar I smashed to bits started me on that very path.

That same day, I went online and purchased a $150 guitar called an Ashthorpe and to this day when I mention that name to a fellow guitarist they behold a puzzled look on their face as to what kind of brand Ashthorpe even is. “Never heard of it dude!” I would play simple little school hymns like wheels on the bus and that was my introduction to the guitar. Slowly but surely the learning process began as I would spend hours on YouTube trying to figure out the right strumming patterns and how to finger pick. Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd was one of the first real songs I learned how to play and still to this day, the acoustic version of Everlong by the Foo Fighters is the only song I can play from front to back. I began to stop YouTubing how to play and would just come up with my own simple melodies that sounded like something to call home about. There are days where I wish like hell I could sit down with my Gibson in lap, in front of my grandmother and show her just how far I’ve come. Yet, something tells me that she’s smiling down on me every time I pick up my six string instrument. The video that I started this blog out with was one that I created a couple nights ago as I got home from work, smoked a bowl and let my mind wander. In the video there is a moment where I couldn’t help but to get a little emotional about a strumming pattern I had found because it sounded like the beginning of a song that I could feel love within.

The guitar to this day has been one of my most therapeutic nuances to this life and it feels great when I can fill my heart and sole into a simple melody. I thought I would share it with whoever wanted to take a listen. It’s not perfect by any means. In fact there are a lot of mistakes I still make but someday, the simple melodies I’ve learned to play might turn into actual songs with words that at the very least, move me to tears. I am so grateful to my grandmother for giving me that guitar 5 years ago and it will forever be a learning experience as long as I live. Happy Mother’s Day to all those beautiful women out there who brought us into this world.

“It is a beautiful thing when your own art can bring tears to you, even if it is only for you and you alone.”