The Marching Band Refused to Yield

Although I can mostly carry a tune, I do not consider myself musically inclined. In third grade I was wooed by the romance of playing the flute - seemingly the most delicate of all of the instruments. Always praised for my long fingers, I assumed playing the flute would be as natural as breathing. This was not the case. In fact, much like anything worth while, playing the flute required practice. And my 8 year-old-self had little intention of picking up the flute any time outside the assigned music class period at my small elementary school. I still remember the velvet case and the glimmering silver of the rented flute. Not once considering the financial sacrifice my parents made to rent that overly expensive dust-collector. It was at the end of that year, that my music teacher politely met with my parents, encouraging me to "play something else"..."anything else."

Determined to fulfill my musical destiny, I decided I'd try my hand at the drums. I mean, how hard could it be? It's just two sticks and a pad. Well, in order to play the drums, one must have rhythm and the ability to keep a beat. Skills, that I do not have. The drums were short- lived.

I did not attempt an instrument again until college - and then I paid for private lessons. Learning the value of practicing from my other failed instrument attempts, I rented practice rooms on campus a few days a week and plucked away. Painstakingly attempting "After Midnight" from my Guitar for Beginners workbook. Diligently plucking away, "D F G D G/D G DD." Night after night, letting my fingers callous over, trying to get my left and right hand to do two different things at once. Finally, after months of listening (to me never improving), my roommate picked up my guitar (for her first time), and played "After Midnight" flawlessly. And so, it was decided that my attempt to play guitar was over.

A friend of mine used my story of trying so many instruments and never mastering any, as a means to persuade her daughter to keep up with her piano lessons; emphasizing the importance of sticking with something. But then her daughter asked me, "But what are you good at?" And I had to explain that I'm good at writing - but not handwriting (as her 6 year-old imagined) and not at spelling, but just writing. Thinking of ideas and words that go together. She, eventually, seemed satisfied by that answer. And I realized, once again, that it's never been a chore to practice that skill. That I've never not wanted to improve my craft. That even if I let my writing slip for months (or years) at a time - that I always returned with renewed love and willingness to try and try again. Rewriting and revising until I hit the perfect notes.