These days, not a day goes by that I don’t pick up my muse and seek solace in the sweet tone of its voice and the feel of peace it gives me.
There was a time I did not have my muse…my partner, my meaning.
Well-crafted mahogany back and sides, a beautiful solid Sitka spruce top. Finely worked and voiced by a Japanese luthier. The balance, warmth, and articulation with which it speaks when directed is astonishing. All of this artistry brought together and finished with six phosphor bronze strings tuned to speak in clarity. Searching for some time, this one spoke to me amongst all the other crafted artworks.
The elegance with which my Yamaha speaks to me, the feel of Japanese craftsmanship in my hands, this acoustic guitar won my heart. As well-crafted as many others were, this one just did something different to me.
I received my first acoustic guitar when I was eight years old. It was a birthday gift, acquired from a catalog. It has been some years, but this was the 1980s. Catalogs were still a thing. Sears, Montgomery Wards, JCPenney’s, the list could go on. I remember telling my granny I wanted a guitar. Watching the likes of Roy Clark and Jerry Reed on Hee Haw had me mesmerized by the object. It made the men and women who touched it bring something beautiful to life.
When I received my first acoustic, I had no clue what to do. Six strings…the small hands and fingers of a child. I played one string at a time and mimicked melodies up and down the neck. Not knowing a single chord, I became a one-string wonder! The guitar became my solace, my escape from abusive parents, from the drug and alcohol use I witnessed, from the neglect I endured so young.
Tuning was a challenge for a young kid with no guidance. My guitar did not get properly tuned until I was in middle school band and could use my French horn to copy the notes. My wonderful band director showed me how to tune the guitar against the tuned horn. That threw the door wide open. A whole new level.
Throughout my early to mid-teens, my guitars were my weapons. I would put feelings, emotions, stories, and more down on paper, then overlay a melody and build songs. It was my therapy. My savior.
Things went dark in my late teens. Years of abuse, neglect, and lack of guidance led me to spiral, mentally and physically. I quit taking care of myself and shunned most of life. My music and songs turned dark and painful.
Along the way, I found others to accompany me. We formed a band. This became my identity. The only thing I knew I was good at. Writing music. Performing came with repetition; the music was the easy part. I put down the acoustic and buried myself in the world of electrified wonder.
For the next fifteen years, I played in that band and a few others. As the lead vocalist, a position I was pushed into for the emotion I put into it, I wrote hundreds of songs and performed just as many shows across many states. I found a brotherhood that supported my writing, men I felt understood my pain. Alcohol and drug use became part of my everyday life. Verbal abuse toward the few loved ones I had left followed close behind. Bouts of mental breakdowns, suicide attempts, and just complete chaos. I lost that boy and his acoustic guitar making beautiful music.
Around my 30th birthday, my wife at the time gifted me a new acoustic. I had electric guitars and I had nice amps. Whatever I wanted, I had. I thought. I had not owned an acoustic in some years, though. Within a few weeks of having it, I found myself healing. Just me and an unplugged instrument, no effects, no distortion, alone.
A few years later, the damage having already been done, a divorce followed. After just over a decade of marriage, swearing those vows and trying to actually hold to them, it was over. Just another crack in my vessel. Another darkness arose.
I put the acoustic guitar in its case and closed it.
In the following months, all my musical gear was gone. Sold and gifted away. I had to focus on making a living and taking care of my two pups. The acoustic remained, but the case never opened. Always stashed in a closet or stored out of sight. That guitar had brought me hope, and then that hope was crushed. It was a constant reminder of a gift that had started to bring me out, and had been there when the door shut again.
That acoustic from my ex was toted around, never leaving its case, for the better part of eleven years. Smothered in its coffin of protection, never to be held or played. Then the day came. I’ll always remember it.
I encountered a young boy who was fascinated by guitars and wanted to learn. Not having the time or the will to teach, I knew I could help in another way. I gave him the guitar my ex-wife had gifted me years back. I asked nothing for it but one simple favor. Take care of it, and let it speak to you as you progress through your musical journey. It woke something inside me. Ignited a flame long extinguished by the everyday struggles of life, of finances, and all the rest.
For about a year, I thought of that boy. I lost contact with him, as he was an acquaintance’s child. Feeling blessed that I had gifted a child music, it was refreshing. Then it hit me.
It was time to go find a new voice.
I was sober now and still lost, PTSD riding me hard, with no outlet but the essays I wrote. I needed the other one back, the outlet I never should have put down. This time it would not be about performing. It would be about playing for myself.
After some time piddling on the internet, reading reviews, and making several trips to local music shops, I found it. My new voice.
From the moment I picked it up, after all those years away, it was magical. I felt like I had found an old friend. And maybe I had. Maybe that old friend was the eight-year-old on the floor with a catalog guitar and no idea what a chord was, the one-string wonder who played to get out from under everything, waiting all this time for me to come back for him. I once handed a boy a guitar and asked him to let it speak to him as he grew. It took me a while to understand I had been handing it to myself.
A guitar brought me back…
Dak