Tuning the cacophony within

My fingers are speaking to me. They're boasting, actually. At times, I try to quiet them half-heartedly, while secretly reveling in what they have to say. But other times, I can't muster up the willpower to even pretend to attempt to subdue them, and I unleash their ecstatic announcements with unbridled pride.

Although I've had the desire for years, I only recently began venturing down the path of learning to play the guitar. My parents had even bought me a guitar some years ago, with the promise of guitar lessons whenever I had the time. And I just never had the time. And, due to what the guitar grew to represent to me, the desire slipped away from me as well.

But, thanks to an unexpected friendship this summer, I learnt the basics of tuning and the first of a few chords that sent me sailing towards a life-long passion. I love little more than sitting with the guitar nestled against me, intently and usually achingly slowly picking out the chords to favourite songs. I spent all evening yesterday icing several new guitar licks (couldn't resist), and when I was finished, my fingers were mottled purple and slowly shedding crumbling leaves of calloused skin.

I relish these calluses. They are the language my guitar and I share, the secret words that my fingers whisper to her on her strings. When I am alone, in the banal world that music has abandoned, I run my fingers across my lower lip and can still taste the poetry embedded in the rough surfaces.

My guitar gives voice to the music that fills my skin.