Yesterday, my friend Isabelle stopped by the office for a little visit. It was something I had been looking forward to since we had that nice long chat in a parking lot a couple of weeks ago. You see, Isabelle has been taking guitar lessons since October—something that’s been on my Life List for at least 30 years. I was thrilled when she offered to come play for me, to show me what she’s learned.
My own private concert. Could there be a greater honor?
This girl came ready to play. (She also came with a beautiful feather wrapped in her hair. See?)
She unpacked her things and carefully pulled from nowhere a music book, a music stand and a thousand picks she carefully lined up along the edge of Ryon’s French Curve Table.
Then oh-so-casually she laid before her a most official looking playlist.
After a bit of fixing, Isabelle settled in, seated in just the right guitar-playing chair, placed in just the right spot in the room. Then down the playlist she played, commenting on the arrangement, explaining her technique, introducing each song with a quiet mention of its name just as she strummed the first few notes.
(Classic singer/songwriter. Don’t you love it?)
I loved every one. And then Isabelle indulged me with one final encore, a song I requested for Vickie, a dear friend celebrating a special day in a city far away. I do believe it is the first time I have ever heard the song played with the kind of heart it deserves.
The concert over, Isabelle handed me a guitar lesson book, her very first one, the one for a beginner. Here, she said. You can borrow this. It’s not hard. Just start at the beginning.
And then she moved on to our irresistible write-on board wall, where she created this perfect drawing.
I think that just about sums it up, Isabelle. Just about exactly.