Guitar

I played the guitar last night and it kind of, sort of, almost sounded like I knew what I was doing. The strumming patterns have me a little perplexed as I am so focused on pressing my fingers down hard enough on the strings to make sure I get the right chord sound. My calluses are getting there. Wow, doesn't that sound sexy? My calluses are getting there... whoa! But, they are and I'm relieved that the skinny thin string at the bottom of the guitar is no longer causing me to wince every time I push down on it. (Note to self... find out what note that skinny thin string at the bottom of the guitar is called so I don't continue to sounds like an asshole). I think it's an E, but I'm not sure. At any rate, that's the worst of the strings and that's the one that needs to be pressed down for the G chord and D chord... and those are used most often- at least in the TWO songs I know. (Note to self... buy a chord book and learn more chords and more songs).

So, I haven't felt the total immersion in my own creativity in a long time. Not since my days of playing piano have I sat for extended periods of time and worked out music to songs I love. I used to sit in front of the piano for hours... and I do mean hours. And by the end, I would have figured out a George Winston song or something. Immersing myself in singing, as I do fairly regularly, has a different reward. That's something I know. It's something that I have, to my own satisfaction, mastered. But learning an instrument is exciting and different. I love the ritual of practicing; unzipping the guitar from the case, tuning it, strumming through the chords I've already learned and trying to remember fingering for new ones I haven't totally figured out. Each time, it sounds just a little bit better. Not great, but better. As with anything in life, consistency and time equals success. Small steps. But, the even greater feeling is the experience where every other thought, worry or concern is completely wiped from my brain. It was a similar experience with the piano. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING else mattered or clouded my thoughts. When I practice the guitar, the music and figuring it all out is my singular focus and it is so freeing! As someone who doesn't meditate, it's the closest thing to meditation that I can think of.

I thank God for music and it's power to bring my soul total happiness. It has saved my life, quite literally. It has brought me joy, camaraderie and friendship. It is one of the things in my life that makes me whole, when I feel broken. I am very thankful.

The Whole of Me

I finally got my first passport a few weeks ago. Which is surprising, seeing as how I live so close to Canada and one would think that I would have made some kind of attempt to cross that border. Canada hasn't ever had much appeal to me. When the mood strikes me to get out of town I don't typically have the desire to go somewhere COLDER. Though I know there are very beautiful areas in Canada, it doesn't seem like it oozes romance and excitement. The only time I see commercials for
Canadian travel is during the spring and summer when the Canadian tourism board wants to lure people to Prince Edward Island for lobster and whale watches. I can do that in my backyard. So, this might explain why the passport hasn't been a priority. Travel takes time and money, both of which I've been short on in the past few years, and the desire to see Europe and beyond has never enticed me... until now.

I have an obsession. Yes, I think it's safe to classify it as such. An obsession with time. Fleeting time, to be exact. I am constantly hit with thoughts about not having enough time to do the things I want to do, see the things I want to see... and more importantly, become the person I want to be. I've started looking at my life's seconds, minutes, hours, days, months and years as tangible. As if they are pages of a book, ripped out and lost to the wind forever. And somewhere, blowing around, are my pages; edges frayed, worn pictures and illegible words... blowing away to never be known again. I can literally see a white cloaked Father Time, with his long white hair and beard blowing in the breeze, holding the book of Alexandra...ripping the pages one by one. And as he tears them off, only he can see the length of story that remains. His face, stoic, yet also kind. I clearly see that image in my mind's eye and I become uneasy knowing that the way in which I spend my days aren't ways which will nurture the life I want for myself. I see the person I want to be, the person I could be, and I am running out of time.

The plan is to go to Italy in September or October 2010. I'm not completely sure what it's going to take to get me there, though I have a general sense of the cost that I'd be looking at. I haven't yet started diving into my research on Rome, Florence, Venice, museums, hotels, restaurants, train travel etc. Just the thought of it makes me salivate as for some unknown reason I feel like I can already taste the food and wine and smell the air. Not only am I seeking a new cultural experience, but I'm seeking a life experience... an "I am LIVING" experience. A chance to connect with the world. To extend beyond my everyday life and people. To be marked with new fingerprints of experience and joy. To simply, live. LIVE.

Do you know how many pages of the book of Alexandra look identical to each other? Day upon day... identical. No new experiences. Slow growth. Wasted time.

I see my future self in the distance, standing before me. I see her faintly and she sees me. And she puts her hand out and gestures for me to come to her. Sometimes, often times, I stand still... just staring at her wondering how I'll find her in the chaos of everyday living. But, then there are times that I make strides to get to her. And the closer I get to her, the more whole I become... the more whole I feel. She's good... so much better than I am. Though I am often panicked about the distance between us, she gazes at me with a knowing smile. A smile that says that we will find each other when the time is right. A smile that says there will be enough time to make it so.

Shattered

I walked up Benvenue tonight
wearing those brown boots you always loved.
The ones you said made me walk like a woman with purpose;
a woman who knows herself.
One step at a time, up Benevenue, in the dusk... towards home.
I wondered what that meant... a woman with purpose?
I wondered how a boot could make me appear to have what you always said I was lacking?
Your comments like that used to make me tingle with excitement.
As if they were so deep and well thought out. As if you could see me more clearly than anyone else and that your words, and your words alone, could help define me.
A woman with purpose.
I realize now that they were just words, and nothing more.
Words with no hidden meaning, no secret truths for me to uncover, no unseen insight into who I am.
My purpose is known to me.
No longer is there a need for your words.
I held on to all your words for too long
and now I let them go like my breath shattering into the brisk night air;
disappearing in a matter of seconds.
Disappearing, finally.