Post 1 on "Trying to be a better writer"

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Learning to play the guitar was never entirely my decision. While it seemed like an open choice, my father's unfulfilled dream quietly influenced my selection. The idea of guitar seemed cool to my naive mind—performing Billboard top 100 hits, basking in the limelight, few pursuits could be more appealing for a pre-teen seeking a sense of identity and purpose 

At GuitarWorld, as my hands ran over the smooth mahogany board of my first guitar, brushing gently over the strings, I couldn't fully grasp the commitment I was making. The months that followed were filled with sore fingers, bruised calluses, and the expectation that epic solos would emerge immediately from my fumbling efforts. Like most beginners, "Stairway to Heaven" remained out of reach, my fingers only capable of simplistic pieces (think Mary had a little lamb). I longed to immerse in music's flow although tragically bereft of the skill required.

My teacher urged me to practice fundamentals rather than rush into more complex pieces. To my impatient younger self, this advice went in one ear and out the other. I was determined to master the guitar, no matter how long it took. With each small achievement—a muffled chord or halting song—joy swelled to eclipse the pain. When slippery bends and tricky rhythms slid into place, grinning triumph erupted. I was crafting music, spinning melodies as if conjuring songs from the air.

Bit by bit, the guitar opened up creative possibilities and a means of self-expression. I dared to share this gift, performing at school and even for my crush. The unlikely stranger that was guitar had grown into a source of courage to cross boundaries. 

As is a rite of passage, I was expected to play the instrument at all familial celebrations. My father’s birthday was no different.

Adjusting my arm over the neck of the guitar, they trembled ever so slightly under the weight of my self-imposed restrictions. As my father kept his hand over my shoulder, I didn’t need to look at his face to know he was smiling with pride. Thankfully, my fingers kept their cool and my mom was able to capture the video in one take.

Receiving a pat on the back, I was mostly relieved that I’d been able to execute it error-free. I didn’t think much of it, until the next day, when I heard those notes again.

Puzzled, I went over to notice, it was my father who was rewatching it again, and would continue to do so for a few weeks. At that moment I realised, all the moments of hard work had paid off, I’d given my dad something back.