Few things more dependably get me buzzing than people reacting positively to something I play on guitar. With my ego, the intensity of that buzz has historically been roughly proportionate to the size of the audience. Consequently, these days - given the infrequency of my public performances and the predictably puny size of any audience I attract (a neologism may be needed here - "aud", perhaps?) - I've worked at adjusting my expectations. So far, my success doing so has been marginal. Add to this litany the effect Covid-19 has had on scheduling jam sessions and maybe today's reflection might not sound quite as whiny.
As my ego-fueled buzzes have grown farther apart, I've lately been reflecting on the contrast between the joy my wife predictably derives from gardening and my time with the guitar. She creates a visual feast that others enjoy year after year; opportunities to share my music continue to shrink. Her main hobby and abiding passion produce tangible results - some of which we eat soon after - with minimal frustration; I'm still trying to get my damn pinky to stay closer to the fretboard. Rewards await her long hours and hard work; postponement of gratification is my most reliable companion.
I considered co-opting Poor Poor Pitiful Me as the title for this post. Cynic and misanthrope that he was, the late Warren Zevon would probably have appreciated my irony. Still, much as I expect no one to admit publicly they need as much affirmation as me, I also suspect I'm not alone on the bell curve with this pathetic admission.