One spring afternoon, when the weather is warm enough to make doing anything feel possible again, I pick up my acoustic guitar. It has waited in a corner of my bedroom for months, unstrummed. Flecks of dust paint its mahogany form an almost ghostly white, but glint like stars when the sunlight falls just right. A fitting treatment for an object on which I’ve cast many wishes. Today, though, I choose action over dreaming and brush off the dust.

I rest the smooth wooden hourglass against my leg and lean in to inspect the guitar more closely. I catch a whiff of spruce from the soundboard, earthy and sweet. Feeling hopeful, I trace my fingers against the cool metal frets and scrape my pick along each coiled wire. The sound it makes is grating and metallic, like a zipper — I’m told this is an Eddie Van Halen maneuver, but it sounds off to any ear, trained or not. And mine is not. I’ve spent countless hours staring at my Yamaha. I’ve pictured myself, in concert with my instrument, bending airwaves to sound bright and brassy, rich and resonant. Harmonic, even.

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For five years I’ve hauled this thing thousands of miles, north and south and west across the country, but I’ve daydreamed far more than I’ve practiced. Maybe it’s guilt, or a jolt of seasonal motivation, but I find myself searching the internet for beginner guitar tabs, settling on “A Horse With No Name” by America. This ’70s folk standard consists of only two chords, so it feels within my range. A video tutorial instructs me to stack two digits on the second fret to produce an E minor, then contort my fingers across five strings for the D major sixth-ninth. It takes me several minutes to learn the awkward hand placements, but once I start strumming, I notice that one chord sounds contemplative and the other jazzy. Laced together, the combination feels nostalgic and curious. I alternate between them for at least an hour, watching the strings vibrate and blur with each note.

Even with zero fluidity and an instrument that’s slightly out of tune, it feels like I’m taking a step toward actualizing my adolescent visions. Like I’ve started to unlock a language that everyone can understand but only some can speak. I have yet to play a song all the way through, but for the first time, I believe myself capable. That potential alone feels rewarding. So when I plunk my guitar back on its stand in the corner, where it makes a hollow thud and the strings faintly reverberate in response to the impact, I’m not worried. I know it will be there when I need it next, no matter when that time comes.

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This story appears in the June 2025 issue of DeseretMagazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.

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