The Zone

Last night I could stand it no longer, and I pulled my electric Fender guitar from its case, plugged it into my amp, and played.

I haven't touched it in about a year. I've been having trouble with my shoulder and my left arm, and playing is painful. I occasionally pick up a tiny little tinny sounding Yamaha that I bought because it weighs next to nothing, but it is not the same as playing on a fine instrument.

My lack of practice was obvious. I flinched at the boo boos in chords, the missed noting, the overreach on frets.

And then finally, I forgot to be conscious of how bad I sounded, and I just played. I don't know if it sounded good - I doubt it did - but for a few minutes there, I found that sweet, delicate space that said, "I am making my music, I am me, I am doing what I want, and to hell with everything else."

Today my left arm and shoulder was so sore I could barely carry in the groceries, but it was worth it.

So worth that I am going to do it again here in a few minutes, pain and tendonitis and whatever else is wrong be damned.

Those few minutes of finding that sound is indescribable to someone who hasn't experienced it. It's like a runner hitting the zone during a track meet. Or the basketball player on a hot streak. Or the writer who has found what she needs to get the words flowing.

It's the zone, baby. It's the zone. It's like a drug, that zone.

Listen to the music. Write the words. Find the song.

Oh man, I need to find my song.