the muse of classical guitar

After a long pause in this first effort of blogging, I was tapped on the shoulder this morning--it was time. My favorite public radio station had been left "on" in the bedroom. Long past the morning news, I had tuned it out while studying a variety of sources for my next seminary paper. There were books all over the couch...a cat who would skirt the edges to check out if personal attention was an option...'no chance' she decided, and headed back to the window to scope out any bird activity. I was deep in thought about pluralism in postmodern culture, when suddenly there awareness of the moment. I heard the melodious blessing of classical guitar. Sighhh....

It wasn't always this way. For several years since my husband's death, when anything of the sort hit the airwaves, I'd launch for the tuner buttons...another station, please. There's got to be something better. Something that doesn't jab me with pain.

Cary had loved classical guitar. He had sketchy music know-how from childhood piano lessons, preferring to memorize the pattern of a melody rather than deciphering music. But sometime in his early early 20's he heard Spanish guitar and he was totally hooked. He loved the precision, the song that poured from a zillion details, the tonality that seemed as near as a heartbeat. He decided there and then that he would be a classical guitarist. He bought a guitar, took advice from others and endeavored to learn as much as he could on his own. Then, he saw the Master in concert. Watching Andre Segovia through his field binoculars, Cary was enthralled with learning the best of classical guitar technique. He formed a plan to study guitar in Barcelona: he made contacts with a conservatory of music, found lodging, fueled the dream. Suddenly, a hand injury at work brought everything to a halt.

Enter: One Occupational Therapist filling in for a colleague in an outpatient hand therapy clinic. One would-be classical guitarist, currently working in the trucking industry. He speaks with ease of trusting God. Cut to the chase: A playful and intriguing relationship, a loving marriage, two dear children. The classical guitar dreams were set aside for an engineering degree and the life of Husband, Dad and Electrical Engineer. Really, it was the stability he'd always wanted. No regrets. The guitar rarely came out of the case.

We had a collection of classical guitar music on cassette tapes and vinyl that I was compelled to give away. My daughter learned guitar in a college elective class. She gladly received Dad's instrument. My son took up the same, but quickly transferred his acoustic skills into the plug-in version. I kept changing the radio selections. That is, until this summer. Seven years later, after layers upon layers of forgiveness and healing, God opened my senses to receive the melody again.

People often say that "time heals" but I believe that to be simplistic and dodging the point. It was only when I leaned into the pain-- cried through hymns, paused, prayed, knew God's presence, found joy in sunlight and Spirit, wrote, painted, identified with the Psalmist, found good listeners, breathed deeply, played in nature, enjoyed friendships, listened to others' pain, and prayed some more-- that I regained a new sense of self. Through it all, God revealed a greater truth about my husband's love. I can delight in hearing classical guitar again. It's a lively and emotive background-- not my own choice of soundtrack--but certainly a blessing. I receive it gladly and keep living the day.