bubble-wrapped lovers

guitar fingers

I have a new beau!

Truth be told, we’ve known each other since I was 10. But if you peeled back the bark and cut a cross-section of our relationship, it would be a giant sequoia trunk of thick/thin, on/off concentric ripples. Some years we saw each other every day, while other years diminished our connection until it was as faint as a smudge of candle flame in a window down the street.

Things got lost in the flux of Le Big Move to this new country. Precious things. I didn’t scribble numbers on all the moving boxes, and I didn’t unpack everything right away.  So here I am, three and a half years later, still untangling essential facets of my identity from the bubble wrap they’ve been languishing in.

It’s hard to be a musician from a musical family married to a musician from a musical family…especially when you’re a self-conscious perfectionist in insecure new digs. So maybe it wasn’t that my music got lost in bubble wrap, but that it got hidden.

All these mixed metaphors to say — we’re on again in a major way, my guitar and I, and my nails are so happy to be chipped again.

 

 

More on pulling things from the bubble wrap and claiming creative victory…

The tip of my tongue

Leaves stretching after a long sleep

The avocado battle

 

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