Traveling Thoughts

The other day I walked into a music store with a friend.  While he was looking around, I picked up a vintage Martin off the wall.  Some of these instruments were from the late 50’s and early 60’s.  There are some amazing things about an instrument like this.  For example, a guitar of this age will actually sound better if it has been played more.  It doesn’t get worn out, but broken in.  Made more perfect if you will.  When you hold one, it’s as if you can feel the soul of the instrument.  The neck has been worn down to a perfect finish due to the hours of gripping hands.  All of the songs that were full of love and of passion and of anger seem to have made dwelling in the pores.  The tears from broken hearts that have fallen on the sides have seeped in to condition not with guitar polish, but with humanity.  When you hold the instrument tightly against your chest and strum a chord all the wood seems to pulse in time with your heart and it resonates your whole body.  When you sit down with it, you never have to wonder about what you are going to play because, after the first luscious taste, the instrument will sing the songs that it has already sung.

It is often easy to forget the beauty that comes with age.  One of my most memorable and meaningful experiences was made on an ordinary day walking out of Chic-Fil-A.  I had finished my meal with a companion, and walked outside.  Walking slowly with shuffling feet was an elderly couple probably both in mid to late 80’s.  The husband was bent over and his wife clutched his arm just above the elbow supporting him with strength that she clearly did not possess.  Like any boy raised in the south, I paused and patiently held the door while they made their way in.  When they moved by me, the lady’s blue watery eyes met mine, and she said shakily, “You don’t know what this means.”  Given, I am a slightly emotional guy, but I was overwhelmed at the moment.  It seemed like the weight of their years rested on me.  I realized that it had probably taken them a day’s worth of energy to do something as simple as going out for lunch.  If I would have been behind them on the road, I probably would have huffed and puffed and grunted expletives under my breath until I found a gap just big enough for me to power through, passing them in a way that would have been sure to express my frustration.  Simply out of ignorance of the love and depth of experience that sat just under the headrests of their Buick.  This couple had probably known famine and national financial failure.  They had seen the growth of technology that sped life up in a way that passing generations would never grasp.  And through it all they had stuck it out together.  One footstep at a time.  Knotted, gnarled hands sharing strength.  

Life is like a fine wine.  It only gets better with age.  It is sorrow that brings wisdom.  It is through that sorrow that we are able to know happiness.  It is through these combined experiences that our flavors and nuances become stronger and more pronounced and more valuable.  Our structure becomes stronger and younger people appreciate the years of growing that we have done.  We become the guitar that is able to sing the living of years.  We become the love that is made through struggle and victory.