Trouble in Pre-school.
It was like this:
Why was there a guitar in a pre-school in Montana? It must have been a very, very bad guitar. I don't remember its quality, though, because a music-maker makes music even when he walks and while he talks -- this is the secret to his craft.
I controlled pre-school. That's who I am. I am the Master of Illusion. I make reality of what is in my mind. I have always had this gift, and I have always reacted passionately and fiercely when forced to abandon my dreams.
I had never been with a large group of kids before -- a protected child, I was. So I did not realize that such head-control is selfishness; that, in larger groups, behavior like this is bound to confront other similarly talented and determined individuals.
My wife said I never do things small. Big success, big mistakes. She knows me. And in this life, I have always been this way. Back then was no exception.
So I had to meet my gifted friends one way or another. If I'd had some introduction to the joy of comraderie before then, maybe I'd have learned how to forsake my own illusions for all the adventures that lay in the minds of my companions. Instead, I held on to the control, dictating the spirit of the class, until. . .I found the guitar.
The only way I have come to remember this day is by re-breaking all of my fingers, surrendering entirely to my greatest fears, and re-learning how to play music. It took almost 20 years just to find my way back to the guitar -- and you know I had loving parents! Hell, I even had a father who was a trained concert pianist! Without their guidance, would I have spent the next ten years learning, fighting my way through the fear, and remembering to play well enough to have the flash-backs?
Uninhibited and unlimited, as only a child can be, I played that guitar. I said to my awe-struck class-mates: "See, this is why I control it, so I can make music!" This was my moment, my one moment that I have forever been trying to recreate-with-a-different-ending.
A different ending, because the boys in the class who had been quietly trying to pinpoint and understand my subtle psychic manipulations of the classroom attitudes and energies now had something tangible that they could target. There I was, fingers dancing, body moving -- it was simple.
They beat me up. They stepped on my fingers. They walked on me physically, as I had walked on them mentally.
They broke no bones, though my fingers were twisted in pain and my shoulder was never the same, dislocated? They just hurt me -- they introduced me to real pain. They hurt me so badly that I became a mess. I could not focus on my game. I could only think about healing; healing was all I could hope for.
Childhood evaporates so quickly, but fear is ageless and timeless. Even after the physical pain went away, in my mind was a trepidation: If I were to make music, then I would attract the pain again.
So I stopped my antics. I closely watched my classmates. My father's job required us to move many times, so I met many, many children. I listened to their music instead. I adopted the world in lieu of myself. On my way out of high school, I headed for the cities and later, the world. And my broken song? Where did it go?
It ran away to a safe place deep inside of myself and waited. It has encouraged me, along the way, with intuitions I did not understand, blurted out one-second solos, and has waited for the time when my fears would finally be placated and conquored.
And I realize this is my life. I learn and listen to every else's song so that I can sing in harmony.
My song is still very fragile, newborn. This time around, every peep of discension anybody shows me is enough for me to abandon the rhythm. I still fear reprecusion. But each time I hear the same song repeated with each person's human inclination to follow, over and over, my confidence grows. There is a place for me in the world. And as my confidence grows, I am recognized for who I have always been. And I feel glorious at that moment.
( Interesting that selfishness is a product of pain and fear. To understand it that way makes forbearance, particularly in others' incomprehensible behaviors, a more easily compassionate activity. )
Why was there a guitar in a pre-school in Montana? It must have been a very, very bad guitar. I don't remember its quality, though, because a music-maker makes music even when he walks and while he talks -- this is the secret to his craft.
I controlled pre-school. That's who I am. I am the Master of Illusion. I make reality of what is in my mind. I have always had this gift, and I have always reacted passionately and fiercely when forced to abandon my dreams.
I had never been with a large group of kids before -- a protected child, I was. So I did not realize that such head-control is selfishness; that, in larger groups, behavior like this is bound to confront other similarly talented and determined individuals.
My wife said I never do things small. Big success, big mistakes. She knows me. And in this life, I have always been this way. Back then was no exception.
So I had to meet my gifted friends one way or another. If I'd had some introduction to the joy of comraderie before then, maybe I'd have learned how to forsake my own illusions for all the adventures that lay in the minds of my companions. Instead, I held on to the control, dictating the spirit of the class, until. . .I found the guitar.
The only way I have come to remember this day is by re-breaking all of my fingers, surrendering entirely to my greatest fears, and re-learning how to play music. It took almost 20 years just to find my way back to the guitar -- and you know I had loving parents! Hell, I even had a father who was a trained concert pianist! Without their guidance, would I have spent the next ten years learning, fighting my way through the fear, and remembering to play well enough to have the flash-backs?
Uninhibited and unlimited, as only a child can be, I played that guitar. I said to my awe-struck class-mates: "See, this is why I control it, so I can make music!" This was my moment, my one moment that I have forever been trying to recreate-with-a-different-ending.
A different ending, because the boys in the class who had been quietly trying to pinpoint and understand my subtle psychic manipulations of the classroom attitudes and energies now had something tangible that they could target. There I was, fingers dancing, body moving -- it was simple.
They beat me up. They stepped on my fingers. They walked on me physically, as I had walked on them mentally.
They broke no bones, though my fingers were twisted in pain and my shoulder was never the same, dislocated? They just hurt me -- they introduced me to real pain. They hurt me so badly that I became a mess. I could not focus on my game. I could only think about healing; healing was all I could hope for.
Childhood evaporates so quickly, but fear is ageless and timeless. Even after the physical pain went away, in my mind was a trepidation: If I were to make music, then I would attract the pain again.
So I stopped my antics. I closely watched my classmates. My father's job required us to move many times, so I met many, many children. I listened to their music instead. I adopted the world in lieu of myself. On my way out of high school, I headed for the cities and later, the world. And my broken song? Where did it go?
It ran away to a safe place deep inside of myself and waited. It has encouraged me, along the way, with intuitions I did not understand, blurted out one-second solos, and has waited for the time when my fears would finally be placated and conquored.
And I realize this is my life. I learn and listen to every else's song so that I can sing in harmony.
My song is still very fragile, newborn. This time around, every peep of discension anybody shows me is enough for me to abandon the rhythm. I still fear reprecusion. But each time I hear the same song repeated with each person's human inclination to follow, over and over, my confidence grows. There is a place for me in the world. And as my confidence grows, I am recognized for who I have always been. And I feel glorious at that moment.
( Interesting that selfishness is a product of pain and fear. To understand it that way makes forbearance, particularly in others' incomprehensible behaviors, a more easily compassionate activity. )
posted by Just Greg at Thursday, January 26, 2006
1 Comments:
You say that "selfishness is a product of pain and fear." I think that makes sense to me. Is it true that the opposites of the products of fear (generosity in this case) are the products of the opposite of fear, which is love?
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