It's Not Music

I'm woken by the alarm, and I snooze once, twice, then disconnect. Make a mental note to change the irritating alarm tone. It's time to get up and face the day. I know what makes my heart sing - making music. Playing my guitar and singing. But not now. Now it's time for that drowsy morning routine. It's not music. 

I somehow get everything done and leave the house, optimistic that the day will hold something bright and magical for me. I drive to my place of work, in the bustling CBD, 21km from home. Depending on the time I leave, the trip takes anything from 30 to 90 minutes. Yes. It's what it is. And it's not music.

I enter a multi-storey building, drive up a curly road, and park my car in the same bay most days. Shake out my curls and wrap a scarf around my head, like a wannabe-turban. It gives me a sense of being different, earthy, and connected to scarf-wearing women all over the world. It's both eclectic and esoteric. But it's not music.

I get through my day, working mostly at a laptop, trying to make a contribution to the part of the world in which I live, and most of the time I feel I'm making a difference. I have a lifetime of experience and I take whatever I do seriously. But it's not music. 

It's time to go home, and I get back into my car and drive the 21km home, this time taking well over an hour and doing hiccup driving, mostly in first gear. I marvel at everything around me - Table Mountain in all its splendour, no matter what the weather or my mood, the difference between how men and women drivers change lanes, and of course the minibus taxi drivers, who flout all road rules, seemingly without the sense of accountability of the rest of us. I can get through this. But it's not music.    

Get home. Open windows, air the house, make supper, eat supper, wash up, prep lunch for the next day, do odd chores around the house, then do more office work. It's not music, but the possibility of making music is closer. I decide what to wear the next day, get through as much of my Trudy List as possible, rush rush rush, because if I have even 15 minutes, I can play guitar.  

On a good night, I write my Daily Pages (The Artist's Way) and do a dance workout, before my shower. It's not music, but now's my chance. 

I sit on my bed, smelling of vanilla and feeling a wonderful sense of peace and anticipation. I pick up my guitar, tune it, and strum ....softly.......the house is quiet.....it's sleeping time......don't make a noise, now.....strum very, very softly ..... and don't sing...... it's quiet time, now. 

Oh, damn!

Even the music is not music.