Enter Nebula

She’s a brat. 

But fuck, she’s hot. 

Sultry curves beckoned me from her pictures. Smooth, dark, mysterious. My fingers ached to touch her. Caress her. Make her sing. In the days before we first met, my libido raged with the arousal of the new and unknown. I found myself revisiting her photos and fantasizing about how it would be between us. Would she come easy or make me work for it? Utterly bewitched by all of the possibilities, I went on a buying spree, eager to discover how well my purchases would complement our whims. I told everyone who would listen about her, like a giddy teenager who knew she was about to get lucky on prom night. When she finally appeared on my doorstep, I was scrupulous, not really knowing what to do with such a substantial beauty at first. I prattled on incessantly, extolling her virtues…trepidatious to touch and then surrendering to the luxurious feel of her glossy body against my breasts as she warmed to me. Fingering her, I reveled in her splendid wood, lingering over her G-string, before exploring the expanse of her elegant neck. My soul buzzed with wanton elation as I drifted off to sleep with her nearby.  

Meet Nebula. My brand new Superstrat guitar. My latest passion.

Passion

“Passion is a powerful emotion or feeling, an intense fondness, a strong enthusiasm or desire for anything or a specific individual. You can have a passion for music, a passion for running or reading, or feel the passion for the love of your life.” This week, a writing prompt asked, “who or what do you feel passionate about?” 

Some say that you’re either born with a passion or you’re not. That it’s an innate fondness for something that you search for from within. And if you’re lucky enough to figure out what it is, life can be satisfying and great. If you don’t, you’ll struggle and be unfulfilled. We hear this often from job coaches and teachers, and while this may be true in some cases, I resonate more with the idea that passion can be cultivated and shaped by our life experiences and our choices, as discussed by author and speaker, Gregg Levoy: 

Passion can be “turned on as well as turned off. Passion is in the risk. In the willingness to step from the sidelines onto the playing field. Passion breeds passion and disinterest breeds disinterest. If we lack passion in our own lives, our other relationships – our partnerships, friendships, communities, classrooms, corporations – will be denied that energy.  Passion is more than exuberance; it’s endurance. It’s sometimes shoulder-to-the-wheel stamina and patience on the order of years. Passion is intimately related to health. To the degree that passion is vitality, honouring our passions enhances our vitality.”

Some of the things I’ve been passionate about were fleeting moments of acute fancy that waned over time – like when I thought container gardening was where I’d find my zen after purchasing my first home. Other passions have stuck with me, hard, firmly anchored into my psyche like writing, travel, bourbon, and music. 

My passion for writing was cultivated by a childhood spent with books. I was in awe of the ways authors weaved tales that allowed me to escape the realities of a tumultuous household and I dreamed of being able to develop the skills to do the same someday. 

My passion for travel was influenced by those same books and never having had the opportunity to venture much farther than my inner-city neighborhood for much of my childhood. The wanderlust seeded deep as I imagined myself strolling along the shores of Prince Edward Island like Anne did, or discovering the secret gardens of the Yorkshire Moors that Frances Hodgson Burnett wrote about. 

My passion for bourbon grew from a brief, yet intense friendship with an enthusiast who introduced me to the spirit at a crucial turning point in my life – when few things made me happy or brought me joy anymore. I grew to love bourbon’s beautiful representation of the delicate balance between science and art, inspiring a fascination in me from grain, to barrel, to the first sip of the delicious and new.

And then there’s music. 

My passion for music was cultivated by my biker, rock ‘n rolling father who collected vinyl records and blasted ZZ Top, Willie Nelson, Hector Lavoe, and all manner of classic rock, country, and Salsa music at any hour of the day, much to the chagrin of our neighbors. Our home had acoustic guitars on the wall, congas and bongo drums in the foyer, and maracas permanently adorning our coffee table. Interestingly enough, my dad never played the guitars, but he loved to have them around. He would play the conga drums whenever he’d spin El Gran Combo during family gatherings. He was good! My mom would pick up the maracas, my uncle would pull out his guiro – playing along as all the kids danced around in a frenzy while our eardrums popped. My father could be a scary man. Complicated with a hair-trigger temper and many vices. Yet, I’ve always had commiseration with him in at least one regard – we can both get utterly lost in the music.   

One Christmas, my father’s boss gifted me a bright red Schoenhut 25-Key Toy Piano. It lived on the windowsill in my bedroom, which faced the alley between our apartment building and another. I would sit there for hours on end and voraciously practice the simple color-coded children’s tunes in the songbook to rapt applause from Maria – a friend who spent the majority of her time hanging out on her fire escape – and Danny – the boy whose bedroom window was opposite my own. Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star was all the rage, but I’d always end with my own composition – a masterpiece of random, always different, aggressive banging up and down the tinny keys. I titled it “All Around the World.”

In middle school, I joined the band, choosing to learn the alto saxophone when all the rest of the girls went for the clarinet. I was genuinely interested, but also absolutely motivated by the fact that the saxophones sat right next to the trumpets, more specifically a trumpet player named Michael I’d been crushing on hard. My dad was ecstatic about this (the sax, not my soon-to-be-boyfriend, Michael), and it was the one occasion he ever went to a school assembly – to hear my band play Warm It Up, Kane and She Works Hard For The Money led by the band teacher, Mr. Forte (what a perfect name, right?). He beamed that day more than he ever had upon being presented with my report cards adorned with A-pluses. 

By the time I left home for high school, my father’s instruments had long sat gathering dust. It strikes me how much my father’s descent into depression and alcoholism stripped him of his passion to play music. And while his appreciation for listening to it has always endured, he hasn’t beat on a conga drum in decades. I’ve asked him why and he’s said that while he loved it, he was often drunk or high when he played – vices he’s overcome in older age – and just can’t bring himself to play again without reliving painful memories and shame. 

In fairness, I never touched an alto saxophone again after Middle School. It belonged to the school and it didn’t occur to me to even ask my parents for one of my own after that. Yes, I was the kid who would cringe and feel wholly uncomfortable when asked what I wanted for Christmas or my birthday, often responding with “oh nothing” or “I like anything.” I just assumed we couldn’t afford it anyway, let alone lessons. But I did sing in my high school choir and fondly recall the full-on ASMR buzz I got from the wonderfully reverberating acoustics in the grand New England chapel in which we performed Handel’s Messiah during a regional holiday concert. 

The fast pace of life during and after college kept me from dabbling much in personal music endeavors. I’d always wanted to learn how to properly play the piano, but ended up stoking that desire in my son instead. And then when my daughter was of age, she enrolled in violin lessons and has learned to play beautifully. I have come to relish the unmitigated joy of watching my kids work at and find pleasure in making music. Even moreso when they play for my father, who radiates with pride and vicarious achievement. Until recently, I had contented myself with watching, listening, and encouraging. 

But not anymore. 

Anyone who knows me well has heard me wax poetic over guitar porn. I’m as equally enamored with its various names and shapes as I am by the instrument itself – Stratocaster, Telecaster, Jaguar, Mustang, Dreadnought, Mockingbird, Iceman, Explorer, Musiclander, etc. The same people who have witnessed this adoration also know that I’ve longed to learn to play for ages. I’ve certainly talked a good game… “when I get my guitar, I’ll….” But the truth is, I’ve been afraid. Wary that carpal tunnel syndrome won’t let my hands do what they need to do on the fretboard. Worried that herniated discs in my spine mean that I won’t be able to endure the practice. Beyond that, I’ve been afraid to fail at something that’s been my father’s lament for as long as I can remember – “I wish I had learned to play those guitars.”

My daughter has been reading the works of Maya Angelou in school lately, and a few days ago I sat with her as she recited some of Angelou’s words aloud. 

You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.

~ Maya Angelou

I reflected then, on the encouragement of my closest friends who kept wondering what I’d been waiting for all of these years. Turns out it took a lost pandemic year of heartbreaks, disappointments, and tragedies coupled with a perfectly timed chat with a friend who emphatically quelled my paradox of choice and effectively blocked my bullshit – “stop overthinking and just go for it” – for me to finally bite the bullet and get my first guitar a few weeks ago. She’s a black and violet sunburst Ibanez Superstrat, not at all expensive but stacked with versatility for her price point, and a gorgeous sight to behold. I’ve named her Nebula, after the cosmic phenomenon wherein the remnants of stars that are too small to undergo supernova explosions gather to form stunning clouds of dust and gases. Feels apropos. Some of my limitations will likely keep me from doing all I’d like to do with my guitar, but that doesn’t mean something beautiful can’t come of it anyway.

My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.

~ Maya Angelou

I want to thrive. I’ve come to realize that many of my passions are nested under the umbrella of creativity. Creating. Exploring. Learning. It sparks my soul to life. Moreover, it’s in the sharing of those passions with others who are equally passionate where the secret sauce truly resides. 

So far, Nebula’s been hard to tame. It’s been even harder to find just the perfect guitar stool on which to achieve the correct playing posture for my short frame. My back aches. My fingertips go numb. And she’s more out of tune than not most days. 

Nevertheless, I feel it. Bubbling up from that special place we all reserve in our soul for those things that we love –  that passion. Well earned bliss. 

It’s fucking great to feel it again. 

Perhaps someday I’ll learn to play that opening riff to Enter Sandman without looking at the strings or shred on my ax like Lizzy Hale. Even if only in front of the mirror whilst I rock my granny panties off.  

Post Images Credit: Carolyna Luna