I have had a lifetime habit of running headfirst into situations for which I am not totally prepared.
As a 19-year-old, I moved to a new city, New York, with a suitcase without knowing anyone or exactly where I would sleep that night.
At the edge of 21, I booked a round-trip flight to Europe, with only my first night booked at a hostel in London and a Eurail pass for an itinerary I had not entirely mapped out. I went there alone after graduating from college, with a huge brown duffle case filled with clothes and Arthur Frommer’s $5 A Day Guide to Europe.
Somehow, I muddled my way through. Except for one very long all-night rail trip to Barcelona, without food, and in the crowded company of Spanish soldiers making their way home on leave, I always managed to find fellow travelers and companions with whom to share accommodations and adventures (more of that for another story).
I found my notebook from that 1978 trip recently, and it brought me back to some of the people I met along the way—the two young journalists from Texas, who shared a pension in Madrid and my aversion to bullfights; the bank clerk in Florence who found me “sympatico,” took me out for a caffe latte and home to meet his mother and cousin Dina, the only one who spoke fluent English.
I wished I had stayed in touch with Fabio, who wrote me asking me to come back to visit; I never did. I lost touch with the two young journalists and the young Brazilian woman, a new doctor, who I met on the way to London.
I threw myself into the fire then, heading into the unknown, not entirely prepared but open to where the moments of the day would take me.
My foray into songwriting is not too dissimilar. I’ve always written and always sang—the first of two professionally. I pursued a passion for singing as a 20-something in New York without knowing what and why I was doing it.
I signed up for a songwriting retreat last year, not knowing who I’d meet and what I could bring to the table. I brought my guitar and the negative self-talk that I would likely not share my songs.
Though my guitar is a classic acoustic Cordoba, I am no Segovia.
I didn’t believe I would be accepted into the retreat, based on the three songs I had applied with, and I thought (based on looking at pictures of past retreats), my gray hair would make me ineligible and an outlier. But I did get accepted.
I didn’t play much of my guitar at that retreat, though I did play a tape of a few of my songs. I was still nervous about my clunky guitar skills. But I came away from that retreat with new “friends” (at least on Facebook), a lot more tools, and a healthy dose of inspiration.
Yesterday, I had the chance to head into the fire again. I went to an all-day songwriting retreat. I brought my guitar, though I had no idea what I would be doing with it. I’ve done my fair share of performing songs in public, both originals and covers, but I had always leaned on having other more adept guitar players or pianists accompany me, because I am no virtuoso on either instrument. Bonnie Raitt, I am not!
I brought my guitar to one of the late afternoon song circles, thinking we’d be playing songs together, and I could strum softly behind the much more adept players.
I learned however that it was going to be a session in the round, where each person would perform their own songs. As I shyly unveiled my nylon-stringed Cordoba against the collection of Taylors, Martins, and Gibsons, I felt that familiar impostor feeling. I was not prepared. I had not even brought the chords and lyrics to my own songs as backup. This was not going to be my kumbaya moment.
I was also nervous about playing in the company of people who were clearly much more adept with a capo, tuning, and barre chords than me.
So, when it came my time to play, my guitar not entirely in tune, I offered my standard patter: “As you listen, bear in mind that I’m a sucky guitar player,” I told the group.
As I started to play, though, I let my voice rise and fall with the lyrics. The words I had sometimes lost on other occasions came to me—mostly. And except for a few muted chords, I got through my songs. And it did not suck.
As I looked at the other songwriters around the room, I could feel their eyes on me, intently listening. And suddenly, all my fears fell away. After my songs, one woman told me that my songs moved her and another man, a far more fluent songwriter and guitarist, told me not to ever apologize for my guitar playing skills again. I don’t know; maybe they were just being kind.
I don’t advocate coming into situations unprepared. I learned my lesson here. But in that small room, where I was feeling cowed and lesser than, I came to realize once again that sometimes when you run headfirst into your biggest fears, to do what scares you most, in spite of yourself, something magical happens. And it is good.
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