A Beautifully Rotten Day

You know the old saying, "an elephant never forgets?"  Well here's the good news: I am not an elephant.  The bad news?  I am entering the early stages of dementia at an alarming young age.  

It is Thursday and the weather doesn't know what to do with  itself.  I wake up to sunshine, put on my flip-flops and get ready for a lunch appointment with Randy Kartchner for a little networking. I leave a little early so I can stop at the music store and pick up a Suzuki guitar book for Jackson's lessons.  But about two minutes before I get to the music store, I forget all about it and go on my merry way to my lunch appointment.  On the 40 minute drive, the sky turns black and it rains harder than I've ever seen in my life.  I am cautious to drive slowly and because I had left home so early, I am fine on time . . . OH MERCY.  It finally hits me that I forgot to go to the music store.  Dang.  I'll do it on my way home,  I tell myself.

I arrive at Cafe Rio in Draper early, due to my forgetfulness.  By now it is raining BULLETS.  I take one look at my flip flops, and take a deep breath.  I roll up my jeans, remove the flip flops and run through a football field size parking lot through the hail and into the warmth of the restaurant.  Once I am all dried off, I find a seat and wait.  And wait.  And wait.  No Randy.  I text Randy:  "I'm not sure what you look like Randy," (we have never met), "and in case you don't know what I look like, I have light brown hair just FYI for when you get here."  Not a minute later, the phone rings.  

"Hi . . . Mindy?"  

"Hi Randy, how are you?"

"I'm fine, but hey, our appointment is supposed to be for tomorrow.  Remember?  I'm in Park City right now."

"Well that's just awesome."  I reply, trying to be chipper.

The rest of the day was a mess.  I lost my iphone (for the second time that week) in the flooded parking lot.  Prayed.  Traced my soggy steps.  Found it.  Prayed again that I wasn't losing my mind.  I sat in the car and cried.  I called the doctor and asked if tests could be done for my failing memory.  I did not want the CT scan they recommended.

I was wet, tired, sick, over-scheduled, and disillusioned with life.  It was a rotten day. 

UNTIL . . .

I went to my guitar lesson that evening.

(Yes, I am learning to play the classical guitar.)

I struggled through a very mediocre "Cuckoo."  Then, I moved up another level to "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star."  My teacher had me play two measures over and over.  By the end of the lesson, I was feeling confident that I could figure out the whole song.  I asked him if I could try and play the whole thing.  Very slowly and with quite a few mistakes and a lot of his help, I made it to the end of "Twinkle Twinkle."  I expected him to say "Way to go!  You did it!"  But he did not.  He laughed and said, "and that is exactly what I am trying to teach you NOT to do!"  

What?  I was confused.  C'mon dude, throw me a bone, I thought.

"In the Suzuki method of guitar, you NEVER try to play the whole song at once.  You take it one little section at a time until that section is perfect.  Then you move on."

I WAS ASTONISHED at this wisdom.  Why isn't Suzuki the method for my whole life?  Why do I keep shooting myself in the foot over and over by trying to do everything all at once?  

Note to self:  My life is not a race.  Master each little section one at a time.  Beautiful.