The following is a true story.
If you grasp what I am about to share with you, it may change your life.
It was a typical New England fall day, about ten years ago. My beautiful bride and I were driving down a scenic country road on a late Friday afternoon. We had been married a few months and were on our way to visit her parents. Apparently, that’s what newlyweds do on Friday night when they live near the woman’s parents.
We were talking. Actually, I was talking, she was listening - or at least pretending to listen (it’s a defense mechanism - I babble a bit as you’ll soon see).
At the time, we lived in a small apartment - the top floor of an old farmhouse. Downstairs, lived another young couple. They weren’t married, but they were engaged. Later they married, but divorced three months later. Marriage isn’t for everyone. Onward…
I’ve been playing the drums on and off for the past 25 years. Not very well, but I play. Notice, I didn’t refer to myself as a “drummer.” I’m always afraid the ghost of Buddy Rich will come to haunt me if do.
At the time, I hadn’t played for a few years, and really missed it. I just love the way it feels when you catch a groove just right.
Why did I stop? Well, I have this persistent memory of being 12 years old, playing in my garage with the doors wide open. Loved it. But the neighbors were less than enthusiastic. One day, the woman across the street roused me from my tribute to the late, great John Bonham of Led Zeppelin fame:
“I can’t take it anymore!” she wailed in a gin-soaked voice. “Please, stop - or at least close the God-damned doors! My nerves, my nerves are shot - just look at me!”
She wasn’t kidding - was shaking like a chihuahua.
So, I closed the doors, and stopped.
And I never felt comfortable playing in front of anyone again. Actually, I never even wanted anyone to even hear me play again (I’m fairly certain the feeling is mutual).
OK - back to that car ride…
Well, I have this unfortunate tendency to be overly considerate of others. When combined with that childhood trauma, I just didn’t feel comfortable setting up my drums in my apartment above the soon-to-be married and divorced couple downstairs.
But in the car that day, I found myself thinking about my drums, and music in general. But I realized it wasn’t just the drums I missed. I missed playing. I missed using music to express myself - for better or for worse.
And then it hit me. Why not play something a little more low-key, and neighbor-friendly? The piano would be nice. But I didn’t have a piano, the room for one, or the patience to try and learn how to play. I wanted to play now!
Well hey, how about the guitar!?
I played the guitar for a short while, back in middle school. Took some lessons, enjoyed it, and seemed to have a knack for it, too. ("Duuusssst in the wind, all we are is dussst in the wind...")
I got excited. I wanted to play guitar. I could just feel it in my hands, hear those chords (albeit somewhat off-key) resonating in my mind, sense the dull pain of the new blisters on my fingertips.
Now pay attention - this is the important part...
In that moment, I decided, with excited enthusiasm, and heart-felt emotion, that I would start playing the guitar again.
I chose it.
It was done. I made the decision in that brief moment, a commitment to myself, to start playing the guitar again.
Only there was one problem: I didn’t have a guitar. Nonetheless…
So, we get to my in-law’s house. Wifey disappears upstairs to talk with her mother, leaving me sitting alone at the kitchen table for a moment.
Her father walks in. Customary greetings, offers me a beer, a minute or two of small talk.
Then, completely out of nowhere, he asks, “Joe, ever play guitar?”
Silence.
A bizzarre Candid Camera kind of moment.
I look behind me, to see if my wife is standing there filming this, smiling. Nope. She’s still upstairs. Hasn’t even said hello to her father yet.
I hesitate, and then respond, “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I was just thinking,” he says, walking out of the room for a moment and returning with something in his hands, “I’ve got this guitar here that I brought back from Germany years ago. I just sits there in my closet...”
“I was wondering if you wanted it.”
Stunned, surreal silence.
Keep in mind, he and I had never before discussed guitars. I didn’t even know he had one, or had ever played. And he had no knowledge of the conversation that had taken place on the ride over, and was completely unaware of my newfound desire to start playing.
Needless to say, I graciously accepted the gift.
And today, I still play it occasionally. But the reason I keep my guitar next to my desk, is because it serves as a constant reminder of what can happen when you combine the incredible forces of choice, commitment and intention - and multiply them with the powers of passion and visualization.
By the way, I no longer need to settle for the guitar, as I also have my drums up here in my office which I play from time to time (but I still close the door).
Coincidence? I think not.
Choice.