Why I Keep Picking Up Instruments I'm Terrible At

Every time I pick up my grandpa's silver-plated Yamaha trumpet, I pause for just a second because I know I'm about to breathe into the very same instrument he spent decades breathing into. That thought gets me every time.

The funny part is... I'm terrible at trumpet.

I'm not very good at guitar either.

The banjo and I are still negotiating the terms of our relationship.

So why do I keep picking them up?

It isn't because I'm secretly trying to become a great trumpet player. Or Earl Scruggs. Or even an actual guitarist.

The instruments have never really been the point.

The people are.

When I was ten years old, my dad died of cancer. For a long time, I thought I'd missed my chance to keep getting to know him. Then something unexpected happened.

His songs kept talking to me.

As I grew older, I started hearing things in his lyrics that I couldn't possibly have understood as a child. Questions. Wisdom. Humor. Little lanterns that somehow seemed to illuminate exactly the part of life I was walking through.

Music became the place where our relationship continued. That was the first lesson.

Years later, my own cancer curriculum taught me another.

If Music could keep a conversation going after someone was gone...

...why was I waiting until then?

Cancer taught me to stop postponing the conversations Music was inviting me to have.

So, after leukemia grabbed me by the blood cells, "someday" stopped feeling like a responsible plan.

My grandpa was a badass jazz musician who played trumpet by ear. Improvisation came so naturally to him that it felt less like witnessing a performance and more like overhearing a private conversation.

So I asked him to teach me trumpet.

I wanted the chance to spend time with Papa inside something he loved, and I didn't want to assume that opportunity would always be there.

A few years later, I had the same feeling about my Uncle Scott.

Uncle Scott loved the banjo enough to carry his 14-pound Gibson five-string across the Appalachian Trail. He'd mastered the instrument, mastered woodworking, and spent years teaching both.

So I asked him to teach me Music his way.

I definitely didn't think I was destined for bluegrass greatness, but virtual Music lessons with my uncle sounded like a pretty wonderful way to spend Monday afternoons.

---

Looking back, I can't help but cringe at the timeline.

Papa teaches me trumpet...

Then, unexpectedly, he dies.

Uncle Scott teaches me banjo...

Then, unexpectedly, he's gone too.

Part of me can't help but wonder if I should stop learning things altogether for the safety of everyone around me. 😅

Thankfully, I can see the real pattern underneath: love refuses to wait.

My dad taught me that Music could continue a conversation after someone dies.

Then my own cancer curriculum taught me something different: I didn't have to wait that long.

Today, I have my dad's Hummingbird guitar. My grandpa's silver Yamaha trumpet. My uncle's beloved banjo.

I treasure each of them.

The guitar is where I still find my dad.

The trumpet is how Papa reminds me to breathe with gratitude.

The banjo still has a little sawdust tucked into places I can't bring myself to clean because it reminds me of the hands that built furniture before they taught me chords.

The instruments aren't my inheritance. The love is.

Music is simply how I keep finding my way back to it.

So yes... that is why I keep picking up instruments I'm terrible at.

Mastery is not the goal here.

Proximity is.

And if this post nudges you to ask someone you love to teach you something while they're still here...

I hope you do.

You never know. Someday, it may become the path back to them.

♾️