Silent

I sit cross-legged on the couch, in quiet contemplation of this work before me. A few feet away, across the carpet, and also silent, sits my old guitar. Once it belonged to my Dad, but it has been mine for many years. For a while it was my steady companion, but we don’t get together much anymore. It sits there, a few feet away waiting, while I sit here, cross-legged on the couch doing homework. One shouldn’t still be doing homework at age 40…. It’s been a journey of 3 1/2 endless years now - a long, lonely road, this college thing. At first, there was still time for that old guitar, but it’s been a while now, and I miss it. I keep promising that I will make time, but there is so much that must be done. This must be what the last leg of a marathon feels like.

The guitar itself is simple, honey-colored with some wear on the neck where many chords have been fingered. The strings need to be replaced, but since it has been silent for so long, there is no hurry. The nut should be replaced too, having been patched back together once. And I’d like to get electric pickups, if I ever get the time to play again.
The case it waits in is ragged. It’s cracked in places, with a hinge missing here and there. And it’s dusty. I should at least dust it off. One thing has changed since dad had it; there are 19 fairly progressive, rather opinionated, sorta rebellious stickers plastered all over the front of the old black case. Dad hasn’t seen that yet, and I’m not sure what he’ll say.
I’m 40 years old, why does it matter what he says?
It’s my instrument now, my voice is my own.
Why do I leave it silent?




I can’t get through the reading without choking up. Breathless… fearful of being seen and fearful of being misunderstood, trying to hold it back, and failing at every word.

What is this fear of not being understood? This is the 3rd time in as many months that I’ve faced that realization. The first time is in the midst of a conversation, when I’m feeling completely devastated at the thought that I might not be understood by someone, or worse yet - misinterpreted. The second time was during a songwriter’s workshop for kids; when taking turns talking about what we fear when performing, I said that my fear was that people “wouldn’t get it”… would misunderstand what I was trying to communicate. It knocked the wind out of me, that “ah-ha” or rather “oh-my-god” moment when I realized that this was a common thread running through the fabric of my tattered mind. And here again, in writing class, this thread is laid bare…

And in my life I find myself silenced by the fear of miscommunicating my thoughts. So many things I should have said when I saw him. So many things came to mind, and I held them back rather than risk misinterpretation, yet again. Yet, I know better than to let that happen… to let a day go by without letting one so precious know my feelings… often there is not another chance to say the things we should say, to those we love. Communication is risky, but it’s a risk that should be taken. Like getting out of bed in the morning. Breathing the air. Walking in the rain, or even in the sun. Life is about risks, I guess. Even if it hurts at times… Pain is part of the fabric of life. The secret - I forget sometimes - is to “wait with it”… observe the emotion, without fear, without struggle. “Joyful participation in the sorrow of the world” a wise man said…