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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
My first guitar lesson ended in discomfort, confusion and despair. But I was hooked. I was 10 but still sensed an intense connection to this beautiful and mysterious instrument. Since then, guitars have been the musical arc of my life.
Through the pain of throbbing fingers and arms, I knew the guitar would tap into my hidden emotions. With practice, the suffering slipped away and I became closer with the instrument. I realized that an important threshold had been crossed. The calluses that formed on my fingertips and raw knuckles filled me with pride. And the subtle, powerful stimulation of my senses while playing became second nature: the clicking of stretching metal and nylon as I gently turned the tuning pegs; the breaking snap of a metal string wound too tightly and the painful sting of it striking my skin; the pungent smell of a melted plastic pick worn by passionate strumming.
There is an ephemeral magnificence of playing the guitar. I’ve lost count of the number of self-induced, spellbinding moments that I’ve been transported to a different reality. When it’s that good, it becomes transcendent. Picking up any guitar opens up a wormhole taking me back to that wide-eyed 10-year-old. I always feel calmer and re-energized afterward – as if I’ve returned from a trip to a familiar yet foreign, faraway land.
The effect of playing guitar always gets better when I see the impact it has on others. In my late teens I spent a summer playing in a band. We performed exclusively at hospitals, children’s camps and seniors’ long-term care homes. Seeing the unguarded smiles, delightful dancing and sparkling eyes of seniors, ill children and their families will forever stay with me.
When it came to overcoming my shyness with girls, I felt like my guitar was the handsome Christian to my awkward Cyrano. My guitar communicated what I could never hope to properly convey, allowing me to articulate feelings to girls that I couldn’t manage through words. I knew my guitar was an extension of me – it had the miraculous ability to not only expose a part of me that I could not otherwise hope to voice to others, but also reveal hidden parts of me to myself.
Each of my guitars has a unique sound, feel and personality. My classical guitar, with its dark rosewood body and nylon strings, sings with a soft, mellifluous tone. My 12-string guitar, oversized and brash, demands attention with its bright, showy sound. And my semi-acoustic electric guitar – shapely and classically gorgeous – commands the room with its power. Each guitar tells a different story and together they create a mosaic of my life. I still remember the thrill of picking out that electric guitar with my dad five decades ago – a shared moment of excitement and bonding.
The guitar has been there for me during many of the major markers throughout my life – serenading my wife and winning her heart, performing for my children while they danced in their diapers and when my mother was ill and dying. My guitar girds and centres me and serves as my island of solace. It allows me to take a deep dive into myself. Whenever the world seems too much, the guitar is exactly enough.
The guitar also bridged cultural divides. In my youth, I traipsed the world and wandered musical instrument stores to get my fix. I have vivid memories of playing and stealing glances at other guitar players. Though we didn’t share a spoken language, we communicated through our guitars, creating something new and beautiful together. Those wordless conversations, filled with smiles and mutual understanding, were moments of bliss.
I will forever be indebted to my parents for the gift of the guitar. My patient and kind mother encouraged me when I wanted to give up. She believed in my potential and pushed me to keep practising. Her unwavering support laid the foundation for a lifelong love of music and creativity.
If people are lucky, they find their own instrument – something that connects them to themselves and others. It might not be a guitar; it could be a paintbrush, a pen, a camera or a sport. What matters is the sense of purpose and bonding it brings. Late at night, when I hear the strains of my son’s guitar drifting throughout our home, I smile and hope the guitar has captured another young soul, as it did mine so many years ago.
Over 50 years ago, I thought I was picking up a guitar for the first and only time. The truth is, the guitar embraced me for a lifetime.
Jeffrey Morry lives in Winnipeg.
