Le Flaneur and I walk through the arboretum and talk about music.
I tell her how I learned music from a place of fear, fear of playing the wrong note, fear of being out of tune, fear of having the wrong opinion, fear of looking like a fool. Music was a serious business, requiring years of practice to learn to do it right. There was good music and there was bad music and it was important to know the difference.
I am trying to explain why I play music the way I do.
Le Flaneur presses: Isn't there a way that isn't so antagonistic?
Was I being antagonistic?
We stop to watch the wild turkeys foraging in the leaves.
We walk again and I start back in with the years of being scared to play in front of other people, the way it felt so rigid even when it was supposed to be fluid, the regret that I wasn't learning a less girlie instrument.
Le Flaneur asks: Can't you express it without sounding like you are flipping everyone off?
Was I flipping everyone off?
I try one more time to explain what I've been trying to explain to myself for years: That what I'm most interested in practicing is coming to music from a place of joy rather than fear.
Le Flaneur has fears about music too, though she's never revealed to me what they are.
Can I learn to come to all of life "from a place of joy rather than fear?" Do I have a secret fear of joy? The fear seems remote today with a brilliant, high blue sky just out the window and anticipation of a walk and then a bike ride in the city.
ReplyDeleteSounds lovely Grandpa J.! Wish I could join you for the ride. Maybe will take one here along the wayward Fox River.
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