Translate Me!

Wednesday, October 24, 2012


So I've been thinking...

...and we all know what a dangerous thing that is.

Ok, seriously. I used to really enjoy music. I still enjoy listening to music immensely, but I can't tell you the last time I picked up a guitar. Actually, I can. I last played one of my guitars (yes, I have five...slight addiction) when we moved them from Will and my house to his parents' place before leaving for BCN. I was sitting there, waiting for my fingers to get their memory of how to play back (not my memory...surely it's my fingers' fault that I couldn't play). The experience was surreal.

Let me take you back in time. I'll skip (most of) the history and get to the nitty gritty. I taught myself how to play when I was young, had a few lessons later (not really my thing), and finally in college took a guitar class to fulfill my performing arts credit requirement. Yes, even nurses have to do performing and theoretical arts credits at a liberal arts school. I wouldn't have it any other way. Anyway, I learned how to finger pick in that class. I don't mean using my fingers instead of a pick. I mean the crazy awesome way to pick, like from "Dust in the Wind" (among countless others). It was the last thing I learned, and, naturally, it was the first thing I forgot. The calluses, long gone, had been the last remaining souvenirs guistarist-ness, or so I thought.

Randi and me at Logos, the place where I dared to first play guitar in front of strangers.
Poor strangers...

Sitting there, my life a whirlwind (considering an impending move to Barcelona), I started to play again. Memory was a flood, and I was gladly inundated. It all came back to me, except most of the finger picking part. It was intense. That ever-elusive finger memory came back. It's not a brain thing (well, it is, but still....not the point). My fingers knew what to do, and it was as easy as that.

As with most things in life, it wasn't meant to last. The guitars, the amps, they all got packed up. Pieces of a whole life, boxed up and set aside for "another time". What if there isn't "another time"? What if that time never comes?

I haven't told anybody other than William until now, but I received quite a scare about my grandmother recently. I was completely soaked from head to toe and through every layer of clothing, waiting for the train back to Barcelona. The Friday night adventure turned from the Zombie Walk to Zombie-Get-Drenched-and-Cold-and-Have-a-Real-Reason-to-Walk-Like-a-Zombie Walk. William checked Skype, and I had a message from my dad. My grandmother was in the hospital with heart blockage and not doing well. It would be scary for anyone. Given her recent history of a heart attack and subsequent hospitalizations, this was terrifying.

What if there isn't another time?

If it wasn't for the support Will and my ESADE friends unknowingly gave me out there, the world probably would have seen a zombie cry for the first time.

The next time you find yourself wishing you had done this or that, or talked to this person or that person, just do it. I was getting emotional about leaving some guitars behind, and they will still be there when I get back. Lives are not guitars, and even guitars don't last forever. Life is fleeting. Life is fragile, but don't pack it away, guarding it from what may come. Go out and live it!

Live, love, and play a little guitar while you still can.

My grandmother and me (during cardiac rehab)
On last report, she has three leaky heart valves but  is stable and should be going to rehabilitation soon to gain strength.

Thank you, Zombie Walk friends. Your humor and friendship means more than you know.


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