Guitar Lessons

They say that when the student is ready, the teacher will come.

In my case, you were there waiting.

I stumbled into my first guitar class, noting the “repair shop” sign in the window. “Good thing, “ I thought. “Maybe they can fix me up here.”

I was hanging on by just one thread. I played a single note on my guitar, and felt that thread unravel; my last coherent thought was “holy sh*t, my sister was right—I need music therapy.”

You gave me my first song.

I spent a week in the psych ward. They tell me I spent a lot of time singing.

I couldn’t get wait to get back to guitar class.

And there you were–gentle and steady and affirming, not treating me like a freak of nature for flipping out just two minutes after we’d met.

Somehow you could still see the real me. You have no idea how powerful that was.

I decided to take guitar lessons because I’d put myself on hold for a very long time.

I expected to learn how to play some music.

You taught me how to learn something new without beating myself up.

You taught me how to not expect perfection when I’m just getting started.

You taught me that learning something new doesn’t always have to be about pushing myself, that having fun can be a way of learning too.

You created a space where it’s safe to make mistakes and fun to learn.

And when you accompany me in that tiny little room, and I sing, it feels like my soul is starting to come out of hiding.

Oh, and you taught me how to play some music.

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Bearing Witness

IMG_1338The more we can bear witness to another’s sacred story, the more we can heal each other and the world.” –Nicole Duenow, Healing House

It was a dark and gloomy night (not outside, but in the very depths of my soul). In the back seat of a car, abducted by strangers with my three-year old daughter, my mind raced to process what was happening and what would become of us. I engaged my captor in conversation to try and discern his motives, our destination, our chances. I knew our lives were on the line. As much as I had faith in God, I knew that many others, far more worthy than we, had perished without divine intervention. Oscar Romero came to mind. If God had not stepped in to save such a saint, I knew we had no guarantee.

Blindfolded, I could not look deeply into my captor’s eyes, read his face, his fears, his intentions, so I searched deeply in my heart, reached depths deeper than I knew existed, and found that place where we are all equals, divine creatures, that place called namaste. From that place I could see my captor through God’s eyes, listen deeply to his own story of woundedness and unexpectedly find these words: “I know why God allowed this to happen to us—it’s because He wanted you to know how much he loves you.” The spell was broken. I had stumbled upon the key that ultimately set us free from our would-be prison. At that moment, my captor’s motivation faltered, and together we began to plan how he could release us.

That experience forever changed me, in ways both powerful and devastating. When it mattered, I was able to connect deeply with love. In the ensuing years, I have also had to contend with panic, terror, fury and depression, all different facets of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD. My journey to recapture the pieces of my spirit that were injured in that assault has taken over twenty years, and is not yet complete. My daughter, now a son, struggles with demons of his own, as do his brothers, who have been indirectly impacted by that event through my struggles with mental illness.

And yet we are so blessed. Life continues, and is full and good. My grandson, now four, son of that sweet little child who survived the unthinkable alongside me, is at that stage where he’s trying out new superheroes on a daily basis. He is endowed with infinite superpowers, and is forever engaged in galactic battles, sword fights and other impressive adventures.

“Grandma, what’s your superpower?” he asks me one day as we play together. It takes me a while to find my answer—I don’t usually think of myself as a superhero gifted with magical powers. After a moment it comes to me: “Love”, I tell him, a little bit surprised at my answer.  “My superpower is love.” In a rather disgusted, somewhat condescending voice he replies: “Grandma, you can’t kill with love.”

And suddenly I am transported back to that unforgettable night and remember. Remember and understand. That key that opened the door to set us free? Its name was love. It was love that saved our lives. It has always been my prayer that love may, in some unknown way, have saved our captor’s life too. And it is my greatest hope that love will eventually help my wounded spirit find its way back home.

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