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 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
| I got a guitar for Christmas. It’s leaning against the wall near my coffee chair, which means every morning it watches me write. The coffee helps. The guitar just waits. For a long time, my focus has been on relearning. Recovering. Getting back what the tumor took away. Words, routines, rhythms. Writing became my way back in. Show up every day. Pour the coffee. Do the work. Even when it’s messy. That journey became Seven Degrees Left of Center. A book about navigating life when the compass doesn’t quite point where it used to. But the guitar is asking a different question. Not: Can I relearn? But: Can I learn something new? That feels bigger than a Christmas gift. Learning guitar right now is awkward. My fingers don’t listen. The chords sound like they’re still negotiating whether they want to exist. Progress is subtle enough to be questionable. Which, oddly, feels familiar. Writing taught me that showing up matters more than sounding good. That coffee and five honest minutes count. That consistency isn’t flashy; it’s quiet and stubborn. So here’s what I’m wondering, seven degrees left of center: If I can show up to write every day, can I show up to play? If my brain can rebuild, can it also expand? If so much energy has gone into reclaiming what was lost, is it finally time to grow into something new? I don’t know the answers yet. But tomorrow morning, I’ll pour the coffee. I’ll write. And then I might open the guitar case. That feels like progress, not backward, not recovery, but forward. |
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