rusty

Last week I saw a picture of a guitar.
And ever since then I've been aching to get it out of the closet.
To tune it up.
And play.

The only problem is, after an almost decade hiatus,
It's not that easy.

After wiping the dust off.
My chords were clumsy.
The few that I remembered.
My fingers were raw and uncalloused and tender.
And my songs didn't really sound like songs anymore.

Let me be clear.
I was never a rock star.
I could barely even play bar chords.
But I knew a binder full of songs.
And could make music from those six strings.
Thanks to 8 slightly embarrassing years of orchestra, I could do even better on four.

But.
I am out of practice.
I am rusty.
And for the last decade my guitar has been serving the purpose of holding up sweatshirts in my closet rather than making music.
Still doing a job.
Just a really boring one.

Beautiful things don't play themselves.
And gifts and chords and songs get forgotten when no one is singing them.
A cardboard box could hold up sweatshirts and collect dust.
These six strings were meant for something much more.

Which makes me wonder what else is gathering dust in my closet.
And that maybe I was meant for something more too.