At the weekend, my husband surprised me with my very own ukulele. I realise how random that sounds but let me explain. As a Gemini, my friend Margaret likens me to a butterfly. Not content committing to just one thing, I flit from one idea to the next, wanting to give everything a try. To some, my ideas might seem random, but after 25 years together, my husband knows me well. So when I said I wanted to learn to play the ukulele after a visit to Hawaii, he didn’t ask why. Or point out that I don’t have the best track record when it comes to commitment (apart for with him, obviously). As Margaret also says, us Gemini’s are quick to bore. Instead, he went with it. Hence the beautiful blue instrument I now call my own.
How hard can it be?
What I forget though, each time I have one of these ideas, is that owning an instrument (or starting anything new) does not equate to being good at it. When I took up the piano, memories of my childhood teacher telling me I was a natural came to mind. I had lofty visions of tinkling the ivories like a virtuoso. Of pounding out a tune on a whim for the entertainment of others. Turns out, I had poor musicality and two hands incapable of working together.
It was a similar story when I began to learn Spanish. I pictured myself laughing with the natives, such was my fluency. Batting away compliments at the flawlessness of my accent. The reality was very different. While I did accumulate a vast vocabulary, my forty something memory just couldn’t keep up. “Otra vez, por favor.” Once again, please? Became my predictable response to every question. But it was during a visit to Spain, that any illusion of greatness rapidly vanished. As it turned out, speaking a foreign language in the country of origin is another level of hard. Well rehearsed phrases parsed out in a restaurant might have gotten me what I wanted, but understanding the rapid fire responses of native speakers is an entirely different skill. Most times, I became paralysed. My brain silenced as it struggled to compute the onslaught of unrecognisable words.
Needless to say, I gave up on the piano and it’s been a while since my last Spanish class.
I can’t do it
You think I’d have learned my lesson then, with regards to the ukulele. But that arrogant part of me wonders, how hard can it be? After all, it only has four strings. Perhaps if my husband hadn’t took it upon himself to catapult me into yet another learning experience, I might not have progressed beyond the talk. Now, I actually have to do.
Sigh. I type this with numb fingers, the price I paid after the hour of practise, two days ago. Turns out, holding even the most basic note (a C) is pretty painful. Aside from my callused fingers, the other casualty of my new found hobby is my nails. Freshly manicured just last week, they are now filed almost to the quick. But, I will suffer for my art.
There’s a song my family love, The Lava Song, from Disney’s short animation, Lava. It only has three chords, so learning that became my initial goal. My husband, who has tinkered with a guitar for years, strummed a perfect rendition in the time it took for me to butcher my beautiful nails.
When he finally handed over MY uke (it’s what us players call them), instead of the soulful thrum I imagined, my graceless, uncoordinated hands produced a sound not unlike something an over excited toddler would make.
Frustrated with myself for not being an immediate success, my initial reaction is to think, I’m no good at this. And honestly, I’m also a little bit angry that my husband is.
I have to take a breath and remind myself that the only reason he can play as well as he does, is because he’s had years of practise. Were he to compare himself to someone who played well, I’m sure he would feel as I do.
Fail to be better
I was thinking about this yesterday during my morning run. I easily completed my usual three mile loop, despite the fact that it was my first jog since the new year. Still, I didn’t doubt my ability, because I knew that I was well practised. That there was a precedent. Because I’ve run three miles hundreds of time – and six miles, and half, and full marathons – my mind knows that it is within my capability, so it gets itself out of my way and lets me do my thing.
Something I’ve been working on lately, is having more faith. Faith both in myself, and in life in general. I was reminded, during my run, of when we bought our current home. We thought we’d found the perfect house, we put in an offer for the full asking price, and we were devastated when we were rejected. But then a week later, my husband drove past a different house. One that was bigger and better. One that should have been outside of our budget but that we were able to afford because the seller was “having a good day and feeling generous.”
I run past this almost home regularly and am always relieved that the sale didn’t go through. The thought of spending the last eighteen years, of raising my daughter, anywhere other than our current home is unimaginable. It’s a constant reminder that sometimes a perceived failure is actually a blessing in disguise. That failure usually leads us to something better.
Writing too
As always, I can’t help but relate this to my writing journey. I’ve had a crisis of confidence of late, going so far as to apply for ‘proper’ jobs. Doubting that I’ll ever see success. Writing is hard. Thirty-five thousand words into the novel I am working on, it takes everything for me to face to the uncertainty of each day. And I can’t help but negatively compare my shitty first draft to the sparkly, edited published works that find home on my bookcase.
All of my experiences with learning something new reminds me that being good at something takes practise. Knowing that to be true, why then would I expect writing to be any different.
I’ve never written a book before. I’m learning on the job. I heard Brandon Sanderson say recently that he wrote five books, just for practise, before he even attempted to become published. It stands to reason then that I’m not going to be perfect on my first go around.
This helps in my effort to return to the page, despite the almost overwhelming resistance. If I’m ever going to be a good writer, then I have to be a bad writer first.
Going back to the uke, I’m going to persevere. I’ll commit, even though my wrists ache, and my fingers can’t form the notes, and my days of pretty nails are all but over. Who knows what I might achieve with a little bit of faith. If, that is, I can prise the instrument out of my husbands annoyingly talented hands.
