I've Centipeded myself

There's a story about the Centipede, who was asked by the Grasshopper how he managed to coordinate and walk on all those 100 legs. All his life the Centipede had gotten around just fine, but when now he had to stop and think about it. And suddenly he was tripping all over himself.

That's me, now that I've started guitar lessons.

My last lessons were back in the Dark Ages, and they focused mostly on learning chords the easiest way possible, and using them in songs. No bar chords, no fancy minor/diminished fifths. But this time instructions cover how to hold my guitar (nicknamed Lulu), how short my strap should be (I never even used a strap before) and where my fretting fingers should be. I've found that of all but one of the chords I've been playing, from A to G and all their variations, I've been playing wrong! Caramba! I'm supposed to keep the fretting fingers close to the strings to speed up my fretting but I have an annoying habit of keeping my little finger crooked as though I'm imbibing High Tea! I'm playing scales (boooorrrrring). I'm barring chords, cringing at the muffled sound. I'm told my customary thumb-strumming is not acceptable; the thumb is only supposed to strum the low E and A, and I have to use the other fingers for the D, G, B and high E. All this time those other four fingers have been on vacation and now they're expected to go to work.

The outcome of all this awkwardness is predictable. I have an endless list of excuses why I can't practice. Negativity is prodding me, telling me the jig is up and I should have known I'd never succeed at playing the guitar. I'm too old, too clumsy. The pads of my fingers are too fat. My instructor Peter, a very accomplished British guitarist and luthier (he makes and repairs stringed instruments) is urging me to come for two classes a week, but I've already missed a session because I haven't practiced enough to suit myself. He's very positive and encouraging, but he's no match for the silly twit in my head that insists it's hopeless. I avoid even looking at my guitar, much less picking it up, strapping it on and playing.

So Lulu hangs on the wall looking lonely and neglected, though she has recently received a tuneup from Peter and sounds better than she ever has before. And I putter around the house looking for busywork, while doing a lot of navel-gazing in an effort to locate and demolish the source of my pessimism, until I realize that the navel-gazing is just another tactic to put off practicing. I have impeded (or centipeded) myself.

I'm just going to take it a little at a time. Put one foot ahead, follow with the foot on the opposite side, repeat with all the other 98 feet...


Photo: Peter in performance. You should hear his version of "It Ain't Necessarily So."