The bass in the basement

basement-closetEvery Sun­day they played so well. Some­times the music touched my soul so much that I cried.

We were part of a church in Oxford, Eng­land called St Aldate’s (http://www NULL.stal­dates NULL.org NULL.uk/). One Sun­day, on the way home after church, I told Heather than I wanted to play the bass. I have always been able to hum the bass line in my head. I played vio­lin in ele­men­tary and mid­dle school. My sis­ter is a pro­fes­sional musi­cian. My dad could pick up any instru­ment and cre­ate music in less than an hour.

We returned to live in the States, and Heather bought me a bass, an ampli­fier, and a few learn­ing videos — includ­ing one by a favorite bassist, Abra­ham Laboriel (http://en NULL.wikipedia NULL.org/wiki/Abraham_Laboriel). I spent a lit­tle time try­ing to learn to play. It was not as easy as I hoped. I tucked the bass in a cor­ner. A year later, the bass went into the base­ment closet. Two years later, I sold it.

See­ing the bass in the base­ment became a guilt trip for me. Heather bugged me to wipe the dust off and give it another try. We finally real­ized it was not going to hap­pen, and I admit­ted defeat.

Sell­ing that bass was a free­ing expe­ri­ence. So maybe if you let go, you will find free­dom. But maybe it’s worth fight­ing till you win.

Foot­note: There is no period — or full stop — after the “t” in St.” That’s just how they spell it in Eng­land.

One thought on “The bass in the basement”

  1. I have an accor­dion in a closet and a piano in my liv­ing room. I can’t play either. At least some­times vis­i­tors play the piano.

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