I've told myself many conflicting stories about making music. Music was a savior in my early twenties and a burden in the latter half. I stopped writing songs altogether five years ago--I no longer needed the channel. Now a new story is unfolding after I got a banjo for Christmas.
Gratefulness and regret. That was the original tension. Grateful that I've found an outlet, something I cherished. But on the other hand, I wondered why the heck I loved writing songs so much. Why couldn't I have fallen in love with math, science, or something "useful".
The grateful narrative won my early twenties. It could've gotten pretty ugly if it didn't.
My world back then revolved around partying and drugs. For many of my friends, getting blackout drunk or high out of their minds was all they had to look forward to. Their paths were littered with DUIs, domestic violence, crippling addictions, ODs, jail time and even death.
Music shoved me off that dark path.
Writing songs became an outlet for my frustrations, volatile mood swings, and loneliness. I began to care deeply about the songs I was writing. As if I was finally tuning into something real and meaningful. There was a rush that came with writing, and it was a "high" that came from within, not some artificial $15 high from a seedy drug dealer.
I have struck a chord that changed my whole trajectory. I was grateful to have discovered this outlet and clung tightly to music, fearing that losing such a spark would send me back down those dark paths I watched others take.
But the intrinsic reward from loving music was not enough. Shame began to compound as I drifted through the latter half of my twenties. Embarrassed by how much I'd put into something and how little there was to show for it. People my age were building careers, buying houses, and getting married. And yet here I was, still writing songs about my feelings.
Sure, it was great to have an outlet, but what the heck was I doing with my life? The regret narrative began to overwhelm the grateful narrative.
I was working a soul-draining bank job. A finance major who couldn't tell you the difference between stocks and bonds. The only skill I was building was becoming more efficient at menial grunt work.
Surely I could direct my passion and energy towards something other than writing, right? Something useful?
Well, it turns out that I was able to channel this anxiety into caring about other things. Reading and learning became my new obsession. Economics, programming, philosophy--there was so much to explore. So many new outlets for my restlessness.
Eventually, I landed a better job. Then marriage, kids, and a house. Things stabilized.
Writing songs was the casualty of this healthy shift. But songwriting unlocked something in me, an inner spirit I tap into whether I'm learning new things, hanging with my boys, or wrangling these words here. Without music, there may never have been a shift at all.
After a five year hiatus, the gratefulness narrative is reemerging. I've been getting lost playing the banjo for hours, listening to the new This is Lorelei album I've recently discovered on repeat, and itching to get a bluegrass band together with my friends.
I stayed away from songwriting for five years because I bought a story that it was a channel that I no longer needed. The negative energy that powered many of my songs was a mindset I had no interest returning to. All of the shame and regret wrapped up in the "wasted twenties" narrative also didn't help.
But maybe I just needed space to learn something: any time spent getting in tune with your inner spirit is not wasted. Like John Darnielle from the Mountain Goats once said, "Art is inherently youthful. We are ageless." The channel can be redefined. What if making music is just an excuse to hang out with friends, and not some dramatic display of self-expression?
Now it is time to pick up that banjo. A new instrument for that same ol' channel I once loved not so long ago.
The real story is simple: I am just a fella who likes making music.