strumming the strings of life.

You look real serious. Try to relax.”

My instructor’s words instantly brought me back to earth. I had no idea how grim I looked, only that I was too focused on getting those chords right to notice anything else. Intense concentration almost made me forget that I was practicing my guitar, not studying for an exam. Unlike the latter, there are no failing marks; only words of encouragement.

Accordingly I loosened up and took a deep breath. I tried again.

With nearly everyone bitten by the acoustic bug, I knew I just had to learn to play the guitar when some of my classmates began showing off their jamming skills one after another. “It’s easy,” they remarked. “You try it.”

Hooked on the idea, I was convinced that I’d breeze through my lessons without much difficulty. A wave of excitement gripped me at the prospect of my first foray into musical instruments since age four, during which I almost left my piano teacher incapacitated by banging down the piano cover during my very first session.

Luckily there were no more pianos to destroy this time. After watching my instructor pertly move his fingers with the gait of a master, producing rich tones in the process, I expected I could easily do the same. Do-re-mi is supposed to be child’s play.

How wrong.

My initial attempts were a little more than total disasters. Upon giving it my first strum, a dull twang vibrated off the guitar and filled the air. Strike one.

“No, don’t place your fingers directly on the frets. Allow for around 1 mm of space.”

My hopes for a faultless start were immediately dashed. Still, I heeded my instructor’s advice and proceeded to try again. A slightly different sound emerged, but nevertheless just as lame. Strike two.

“Press harder. Look, your middle finger is barely pushing the string down,” he pointed out.

I hesitated, and then pressed as forcefully as I could until I felt a cutting pain as the nylon strings dug into my skin. I realized that my wobbly, inexperienced fingers were no match for what appeared to be effortless, uncomplicated actions that in fact required much skill and deftness. I strummed once more and listened.

Being too preoccupied with my left fingers, I was unaware that my right thumb was plucking a different string. I only discovered my blunder the instant “do” came off as “mi”. Strike three.

So went a vicious cycle of frustrations and repetitions. Before long, I was staging my own comedy of errors, my pathetic hand-eye coordination earning me the lion’s share of embarrassment. Deep inside, my patience was running out and my self-worth deteriorated with each silly mistake. I wondered if learning to play this instrument was such a good idea after all.

Vestiges of my first session manifested themselves in deep red marks on my left fingers and a sore right thumb. My thoughts didn’t help much, either. Here I am at step one. Success lies at step infinity.

It was more or less a similar scenario back home. Doing the suggested hour’s worth of daily practice only rubbed more salt to an already bleeding ego. For several minutes I remained stuck in a quandary, trying to make sense of the myriad noises I was unconsciously producing, poring over pages of notes and staffs in vain.

I just couldn’t understand. Music was supposed to be some form of relaxation, a temporary breather from life’s stresses. What then am I doing with a guitar that gave me more headaches than happy thoughts?

After what seemed to be an eternity of alternately plucking and groaning, I could stand it no longer. My pent-up frustrations found release in the form of a scream that echoed throughout the whole house. I was ready to smash the instrument into pieces.
My mom came down and promptly gave me a telling-off.

“That’s the problem with you. Always in a hurry. Remember, there are no shortcuts here. Go ahead and practice some more.”

Her words rang like alarm bells. It was true that many times in my life I had played hide-and-seek with the success game which fortunately had cheeky detours. It looked as if my smart-guy-of-a-guitar doesn’t want to be outdone, too.

Frowning, I reluctantly picked up the instrument and practiced again. No luck. The notes bounced off like a six-year old blowing his New Year’s trumpet. Not to be discouraged, I checked my fingers, firmly placing them where they should be, and strummed. Better. Prodding myself on with each tiny bit of improvement, an hour passed and before I knew it, I was coolly producing C-majors and A-minors and getting the hang of it. Sighs turned into chuckles, and there were no more agonizing screams. Suddenly, learning to play the guitar was such a good idea after all.

From then on, it was a promise of patience and optimism that I kept to heart every time I drew out my guitar and practiced. Less grumbling and swearing, more persevering and stretching of my patience for as long as I can hold it. I still commit mistakes and my fingers would hurt after every sitting, but I have come to accept them as part and parcel of the learning process.

As I stare at the set of notes before me and position the guitar on my lap, I had a heartening insight: Whatever step you’re in, step “patience” will always be there to lead you to step infinity.

I began to strum.