If you know me personally, it's probably not hard to tell that I'm going through a strange season.
It all began when a friend of mine unexpectedly passed away at the beginning of this month.
I was sent out to meet him at his guitar shop when I was a teenager cutting my teeth on my own six stringer. He was older than me -- a couple of years younger than my dad -- but his inherent youthfulness and enthusiasm for a variety of music gave us enough common ground to forge a friendship. He was so supportive of me and believed in my musical capabilities, even when I didn't (which was most of the time). He always made a special place for me to sing on the local radio show he taped each week, and singlehandedly taught me just about every guitar lick that I know (which might not be many, but they're hard-won).
As I grew older and began pitting myself and my abilities against the world as young people are bound to do, I somehow got the idea in my head that because I wasn't turning out to be the world-class musical genius I aspired to be, I should just hang it up and try to be practical. I'd tried everything I'd dreamed of doing when I was younger -- I'd opened for a few bigger country acts of my time, gigged around New York, been a fly on the wall of some classical composers and musicians who were wayyyy out of my league (and accidentally learned a lot about the creative process), and had come back home where I'd fought through a statewide talent search and earned a chunk of studio time to complete a quality demo.
During all this, I never stopped to ask myself if I was enjoying what I was doing. It was simply what people expected me to do. Making music was the only thing that made me feel like I was worth the carbon I was composed of. Deep down, though, what I'd yearned for was to have a family, and to be someone's wife, someone's mother.
When my management at the time told me not to marry Jason because HE was offering me the moon in the form of contract negotiations with Virgin Records, I realized that I'd come to a crossroads: either pull a Robert Johnson and accept the golden guitar he was holding out to me, or turn on the person I loved and trusted above all others.
I chose Jason, and I pulled back on the reigns of what was about to go down.
And for once, I made right decision. Jason and I were married months later, and our contact at Virgin had a massive heart attack and dropped his little basket. I hated that; he was a sweet little feller. I hope he recovered.
Since then, I've had a hard time pursuing music with much gumption; it's difficult to explain to people why I don't "go out and do something with it", as our go-getter society prescribes. I guess that's what kept me from going to see my friend who's now passed away -- I was so embarrassed of anyone trying to treat me like I was special, someone worth being proud of, I couldn't face letting him down when he'd spent so many years building me up.
Of course I couldn't shut the box on music for good. I still play piano for our church services every Sunday, and I sing when I find a song that I believe is worth sharing. I've written songs for special people's weddings and funerals, and have somehow become the default national anthem singer for Grant County. I truly love doing those things, and applying my skills within my community rather than acting like I've got to escape home in order to feel like a "legitimate musician". Bloom where you're planted, homey.
But it's funny how these snakes have a way of chomping down on their own tail. Since Ava's come along, the idea of making music a huge part of her life has renewed a longing in me to wade back into the scene and take up where I left of loving the process of making music. When I went to my friend's memorial jam session last weekend, it hit me like a ton of bricks that without neglecting his beloved family, he had still managed to draw so many souls around his campfire and keep the music alive in his life. I looked around at the hundreds of people who came in the door to play a lick, share a story, or sit back and bask in the good vibes that his memory inspired, and realized that I had sold myself short, and in turn, had done the same to my daughter. I wanted her to know her mother as a complete woman, and without the spark that actively playing and singing brings to my life, I had shut down a part of myself that could nourish us both.
So the next afternoon during her nap, I sat cross-legged on the floor and retuned my rusty Takamene strings. I learned a couple of tunes by The Judds. The day after that, I picked up a handful of new picks and received an invite to an open blues jam. And you know what? I just might show up.
Can momma sing the blues?
You know baby bird's gotta get those lungs from somewhere.
