God and Guitara poor man's philosophy

GodWhen I was at Catholic School in 5th grade, he was a white-bearded Caucasian man (man-looking, but obviously not a man), about 70 years old and wearing gold-framed eyeglasses.

GuitarI was fourteen when I picked up my first one. It was a Gibson, an old electric that was missing some paint. Initially, it wasn't an instrument but a musical enigma. How anyone could make sense of all the strings and frets, I found it all nothing short of magical.

GodNow almost fifteen and in the "sprout" phase, sprouting in height, zits, and erections. But my mind was also beginning to sprout up doubts about my faith. I wanted knowledge. I wanted answers. I wanted to know the origin of my existence. I wanted an answer to the self-effacing question of Why? The old Santa-looking God, although a comforting image, offered me nothing but dead ends to my questions. And as a teenager under the spells of puberty and testosterone, this naturally pissed me off.

GuitarNo longer a complete mystery, but still an instrument to be mastered at age sixteen. I put in the hours and my fingers and brain familiarized themselves with pentatonic scales, Bbm7 chords, and pinch harmonics. Slowly, the guitar was beginning to lose its mysticism that had once mesmerized (and even scared) me, the mysticism being replaced by logic that I had acquired through playing--through endless trial and error.

GodAt eighteen, he took a long-overdue vacation. I was lost in books, girls, the Internet, and empty dreams of one day being someone important. I'd stop in to pay him a visit on the occasional Sunday, but I never knew if he was around or if he had completely vanished. Without him around, the world looked uglier. I knew I couldn't go back to those simple days when he was that cheery cloud-sitting friend who watched over you and heard all your thoughts. But I missed the simplicity of it all, I will say that much. Now everything was confusing. Death was confusing. Purpose

was confusing. Individuality was confusing.

GuitarI thought for a while she had lost all her charm that she once offered. I had been playing for six years and knew most of the chords and scales. It had been one hell of a learning experience, I thought to myself. So much chaos and unknown woven into order and symphony by way of the hands and the mind--it must've been what that Genesis God had felt like on the seventh day.

God21, and more confused than ever. But at the same time starting to craft my own religion--a religion that made sense, at least to me it did. Love, learn, listen, think, question, doubt, and enjoy the world as it unfolds.

God and Guitarhave told me that the mysteries of the universe are not to be feared nor attacked, but embraced. Knowing every note, chords, and scale, yet still there are some questions that the guitar keeps the answers to herself. That a few notes can place pure joy in the heart or the most bottomless despair--this is a mystery we shall never understand. But is it not what makes the guitar and music so alluring in the first place? Is this appeal not the same with the thought of God? Must we know all to fully find joy and beauty in the world? Or does the joy come simply from not knowing, but from embracing the unknown?

It's like trying to explain beauty with words.