The Music Maker

The morning after a particularly emotional session with my vocal coach, I was typing an e-mail to a musically inclined friend I was sure would understand my struggle.  All of a sudden, I heard the faintest sound coming from across the room.

I glanced to my right to see Holly perched on the recliner next to my six-string, her left arm draped around its neck.  She proceeded to strum a few more strings, plucking out a lovely little melody. 

"Playing a few chords, are you?," I asked wryly, trying not to dwell on the fact that even without fingers my CAT proved a more capable finger-picker than I was.

I don't know what a chord is.  I'm just making music.

She cut me off before I could attempt to explain what little I know of basic chord theory.  I don't need to know about chords or notes.  I just play what I feel. 

I'd already recognized that the trouble I'm having with my singing voice stems not so much from being roughly nine years out of practice, but from a vast disconnect between my voice and my heart--and it was safe to assume my guitar-playing abilities were trapped in that same abyss.  What Holly said next was therefore not surprising.

Chords and notes come from the mind.  Music comes from the heart.  There's a pretty big difference.

(The message also echoed what Holly told me previously about writing. Yes, we have a theme here.  And no, I still haven't figured out how to shift it.)

I stopped singing and playing when I did because not doing it professionally (as I'd aspired to at the time) became too painful.  It was far more tolerable to give music up entirely than to be constantly reminded of how I was not living my dream every time I indulged in a song.   But even though I'm slowly working my way back to the microphone right now, I'm proceeding with immense caution.  I have made this, as Holly puts it, a mind's endeavor rather than a heart's endeavor.

That's because my mind has much thicker skin. I reduce everything--music, writing and poetry, design, exercising, eating, my job(s), my ambitions, and even love--to a system of tangible parts with a clear right way and wrong way.  If I imitate the "right" way, I am content with myself (albeit on an empty and highly superficial level).  And if I slip up, I just smile and say "oops."  I might laugh and shake it off outwardly, but on the inside you can bet I'm focusing intently on not letting that happen again.  Never, never again. 

But my system of systematizing has a significant flaw (besides its obvious one), and my music training is currently putting out a public recall on it.  My mind isn't controlling my body the way I've convinced myself it's supposed to.  And when I am physically and/or intellectually unable to mimic perfection on the second go-around, I completely shut down.  I don't remember all the guitar chords I'd mastered back in the day, and my fingers aren't quite strong enough to play with persistence the ones I do.  My vocal range is severely restricted.  I strain to slide to hit notes I once glided through with ease.  I can barely sustain my breath through a single phrase.  It's rather frustrating, as you can imagine. 
 
I do have heart.  Somewhere.  I've caught glimpses of it before and it was stunning.  And I might even be so bold as to claim I have soul, too, beaming with beauty and passion beneath all those layers.  Layers I painted. 

Holly, the creative and heartful girl that she is, seems to have joined forces with the Universe to press me to access them--to share them with myself and the world again. But passing the reins from my mind back to my heart and soul means I must finally forgo that clever cloak I for so long have been hiding behind. I think it goes without saying that doing so (or merely thinking about doing so) is beyond disconcerting.

It's horrifying.