I’m well past that infamous moment in a man’s life where he suddenly buys a red convertible, or a fancy watch or laptop he doesn’t really need, or dyes his hair dark again and sudden appears in public with a much-younger woman on his arm.

No, I’m beyond those impulsive fountain-of-youth siren calls, but not immune to having a later-in-life moment of feeling good vibes from long ago, wondering if I should get back to that early passion.

I’m talking about the urge to pickup playing guitar again, this time via a modern, digital modeling amplifier with effects and mods preset to mimic many brand amps and well-known band sounds. Add to that the latest in amazing luthierian wonders from PRS guitars and I’m ready to remember (try at least…) all those songs I used to know lead licks to, plus catch up on all the great sounds since. Purple Haze I may be coming back!

Now, to be fair, any pursuit of music is a wonderful, creative endeavor regardless of when. Music has always been a constant in my life, vastly more listening than creating. In high school and into college, I played at being a guitarist in bands pretty seriously (and likely in part because the chicks thought it was cool). In college, selling off gear for other obligations plus interest in other things, seemed important at the time (it wasn’t, but that’s water under the bridge).

Fifteen years ago, I met a guitar collector and told him about the ‘69 Fender Stratocaster and ‘65 Gibson ES335 w/Bigby I owned and sold in the mid-70s. He ruined my day when he mentioned the pair were (then) worth close to $50,000. I probably didn’t get more than $500 when I sold them.

About ten years ago I got the guitar itch and picked up some acoustic gear but didn’t stick with it. Had thoughts of songwriting and open mic nights, but again, other “stuff” in the way. I sold that round of gear (and not ironically for less than I paid).

Now, with the pandemic, my life without obligations but time and funds available, coupled with listening more to the music I loved and played way back when, the thought returning to it showed up again. YouTube’s amazing depth of videos, from breaking down how to play riffs to interviews with my heros back then to gear reviews and stories, hasn’t helped deter this idea.

This story today doesn’t end with me telling you that I bought the gear, although admit there’s a fat shopping cart out there waiting for me. Also, in my defense, it is my birth month, so clearly I need to spoil myself somehow.

But as I’ve learned with major purchases as I’ve grown wiser, I’ll wait a bit to see if a) the idea is still exciting, and b) my choices still feel like the right ones. Stay tuned (pun intended!!) to see how this flash of youthful whimsy turns out.

March, being my birth month, marks the approaching exodus from winter, and the entering of yet another year bookended by a birthdate. Measuring life via this yardstick was a celebrated day growing up. As an adult, it’s more one of mixed feelings. In these pandemic times, never a bad thing to celebrate still being “here,” but at a certain age, it’s also yet another year apathetically torn off the calendar of life.

No complaints here. I consider myself fortunate to be this far and confident I’ve a long way to go, but it’s still a poignant time of life. 

I view existence as a horizontal timeline, one we move along slowly while hopefully pausing, noticing, and enjoying each day. Some people, however, see this same timeline like a sine wave on an oscilloscope, with even peaks and valleys we ride up and down, our birth day being at the top of these curves. I suppose optimists see it that way whereas pessimists it’s at the bottom.

Of the many things I’m grateful for during this birth month, my thinking and cognizance seem to have weathered well, and such pursuits are more important to me now than in my past. Oh, if pressed, I might admit to wishing I’d read deeper and wider, written more often, and pursued more learnings earlier. Had I done so, I wouldn’t be enjoying the renaissance I seem to have now with reading and writing. 

If I were to sit and pen a letter to my younger self right now, what would I say? And if I could tell him only three things, what would they be? First, I’d tell him to stop worrying about where you’re going and focus on where you are. Second, I’d advise him to reach more outside his comfort zone to try different things. And last, I’d tell him to take better care of his body, especially during those dangerous years between our active twenties and the awakening from lethargy in our 50s. 

But of course, that’s not possible. All I can do is take these lessons I would have shared with him and apply them to me: don’t worry about not doing them yesterday, nor planning for tomorrow so much, but simply embracing them today.

Yesterday’s stroll down memory lane continues to stir up more thoughts about my past than expected. I wonder why we sometimes dwell on a period of our life remembered fondly, and for some, wistful to experience them again. So what’s the value in recalling these younger, impactful times when few responsibilities allowing doors to experiences and experiments?

Why did these dredged-up memories of my twenties stick with me so long after looking at these photos? Was I subconsciously yearning for living like that again, or the fabled time machine fallacy of “Wish I could go back then knowing what I know now?” Connecting to the people and places back then, that’s no longer me (nor them), since our lives since changed into different people and newer places. We should cherish such memories, since these are the layers of paint we applied to the canvas called life throughout our years. Each overlapping layer—our experiences and errors—build up to what our lives are now.
 

We all probably have that Uncle or someone at family get-togethers who tells the same old stories from his past. I remember at one such gathering finally asking him, “So what cool stuff’s happened to you since then?” To which his reply showed how tightly he held and refuse to let go of the past: “Oh, you know, the same-old, same-old.”

Philosopher and author Nassim Taleb wrote about the “narrative fallacy,” that tendency for some to pull unrelated events from the past, spun into stories and inserted into conversations, often unconnected to the conversation. For these people, it’s another chance to brag about one’s feats, salve for their souls they must think need constant reminders of those glory days.

So does that mean telling stories from our past is bad? Out of context, or for the benefit of the teller and not their listeners, probably not the best idea. Sharing and learning from those who’ve walked this Earth longer than we have is a valued tradition. But when it’s all someone can talk about, probably not good to dwell too much on the past, or see them as their “best of times” with later years merely clock-watching until it’s over.

We grow to fit the time we live in and enjoy and appreciate it because of these continually applied layers. Each succeeding layer influences the next, changing in color and tone, through the years. We should never stop creating our life’s artwork, even though we don’t know how majestic or colorful each added layer will be, but we know they will reflect who and what we are.

Vivid memories of my youth simply reveal a life embraced and explored. These people and places back then are ones to cherish, not wish to be back there with them. Each layer on our canvas are ones to be thankful for, and perhaps occasionally enjoy fond memories. Quickly, though, we return to finding the right paints for the wet layer we’re brushing on today. Each day we should be ever grateful to what’s underneath, once again standing at our easels, on yet another day with brush and palette in hands.