“The best thing for being sad…is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honor trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then—to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the thing for you.” – T.H. White, The Once and Future King
I recently chatted with a mechanic (my tires had lost air or something, a red light was flashing – or was it yellow? – I don’t do cars), who – for I do not know what reason – mentioned that his grandfather took up knitting after retiring, and didn’t give a damn if anybody thought it was odd or weird for a man to do that, knit. It was meditative, I bet (my word not the mechanics, but he nodded his assent), going on to say that his granddad liked having something to do with his hands. He also enjoyed learning a new skill, one that was practical; he used what he learned to make winter hats and scarves. He’d been a farmer, the mechanic went on, and was used to being on the move all the time. Just because he was old, why did he have to sit in a chair and do nothing, or just watch TV while waiting to die? He wasn’t a reader (I asked, because of course I did), so definitely not from my book-nerdy tribe, but I hear you, gramps! Why not knit?
Learning something is never old, never gets old – and in my case, I am buying either (I haven’t made up my mind, yet!) a trumpet or an oboe. I always, always wanted to play the trumpet but was made – yes, made – to take up a more ‘feminine instrument’ by my mother: the flute. The flute was fine but it was also boring AF because there was a whole flute section (all female, yawn) and what I wanted to do was blow a fucking trumpet!! Or hit some drums, but that, I knew, would never, ever be allowed to happen, so – can I take the trumpet, mah? May I take the trumpet, mother darling? May I take the trumpet, mother darling? No. Flute, oboe, or clarinet. This was all because they were ‘feminine instruments’, and I was a girl so… Plus, the band had enough clarinet and oboe players (I love the sound of an oboe, which is why it’s on my maybe list), and thus, I was made to take the flute.
My mother was friends with the band director, who was another Catholic teacher she’d known since her career began. Sigh. He was very nice, and perhaps, if I had spoken to him directly, he might’ve supported my wish to join the brass section. That wasn’t something I felt I could do at the time – speak to him, especially as it was clear he deeply admired my mom for what reason I could and cannot tell you. She taught Latin; a certain cohort of people thought that knowing Latin was a big deal – other Catholics, mostly, or those for whom a second language, even a dead one, was significant or important; he may’ve been one of that number. Who knows?
What happens when we stop learning or trying new things? Stuffing our heads with reality TV and social media bullshit except, I know, I see, there are tutorials on all sorts of useful things out there too, including a set of yoga sessions that’ve totally helped me out (thank you, Jolene). I once learned bridge, the card game, and I want to get back to it now, thirty years later, intending to create as well a small social circle through playing cards, which I’ve always loved. And didn’t I once love backgammon? Why yes I did. Let’s do that again, shall we?
We are, we all are, living in stressful times. Perhaps we’re not sad, exactly, but to take up something new, to learn, to disconnect from our phones and tablets and computers and get outside our comfort and competency zones, is more important now than ever before. Learning about veggie and herb and flower gardening, how to help the bees and birds, has given me so much joy over the last few years, I cannot begin to tell you how much. Yet I will never be even a medium level gardener. And that’s okay. In fact, it’s wonderful and hilarious, because I love being inept, sometimes, it makes me feel human, it reminds me that I am human, fallible, imperfect – while still being worthy of love and respect, including from myself, my harshest critic historically. Finally, finally I have let that go. Mostly.
I was a terrible knitter (at age 6 or 7) – not doing that again. It was too slow, and the wool was getting dirty in my grubby ass I’d much rather be outside and mostly was kid-hands. But – the trumpet? The oboe? Yes, ma’am!