In my angsty teenage days, I played my dad’s guitar…a lot. It was my outlet. Sometimes it was chorded songs printed off the internet, sometimes it was songs that I’d written (that notebook may or may not have had an accidental run-in with a bonfire a few years ago…), sometimes it was from the church hymnal. No matter, the source, it was always a comfort.
This evening, I picked up that guitar for the first time in at least four years. While my nails are longer (making the strings buzz…), my coordination isn’t want it was, and my muscle memory a bit foggy, it is still such a comfort to play. It wasn’t perfect, but it was invigorating. ❤