Recorder: A Joyful Escape from Daily Stress
The workday's end often leaves me feeling like a tightly wound spring. Shoulders knotted, breathing shallow and rapid. For years, the ritual was simple: the decisive click of the laptop closing, followed by the satisfying pop of a cork, and a generous pour of red wine. That first taste was the punctuation mark, bringing a much-needed halt to the demands of the day.
Then, a few months back, a forgotten relic from my son's childhood surfaced in the attic – his old school recorder. I picked it up on a whim, the simple act of blowing into it instantly conjuring a flood of memories. For a long time, this humble instrument was a source of torment, its piercing squawks a daily assault on my senses, the echoes lingering long after my son had gone to sleep.
Instead of banishing it back to dusty obscurity, I brought it downstairs. Alongside it came a beginner's book, "Very Easy Recorder Tunes." Music was never my strong suit growing up; I was decidedly unmusical. While I'd had a brief, uninspired introduction to the recorder in infant school, opportunities to explore other instruments never materialized.
A quick dive into the internet, searching "how to play the recorder," led me to a trove of YouTube tutorials geared towards children. I printed out a fingering chart and hunted down the "easiest recorder tunes." The thrill of producing a recognizable rendition of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" was immense. Admittedly, it's a tune a five-year-old could likely master before morning tea, but for a stressed, tone-deaf, and impatient 51-year-old, it felt like conquering Everest.
My son's initial reaction was a mixture of bewilderment and a plea for me to cease and desist. But I pressed on. I discovered a profound satisfaction in the act of playing the recorder. My tendency to forget things meant I had to actively engage with the sheet music, meticulously translating the finger positions. My breathing naturally deepened, my focus sharpened. And once I navigated that first shaky melody, a wave of euphoria washed over me. I could, in fact, play an instrument.
Months later, my repertoire has expanded to include other nursery rhymes and a passable "Ode to Joy." My rhythm is still a work in progress, and I confess I still need to jot down the note names, but the goal isn't virtuosity. It's not about becoming a "musician." It's purely about the joy it brings and the complete absorption it demands. When I play, nothing else matters.
I read recently that a mere one in six children now learn the recorder. While this might be music to the ears of many parents, it stirred a pang of melancholy in me, a nostalgic longing for my own school days and, surprisingly, my son's.
My new habit is to pick up the recorder each evening before anything else. Those roughly 20 minutes are my sanctuary, a brief escape into a world entirely my own. Afterwards, I emerge feeling genuinely refreshed and uplifted.
My friends find it amusing, but a very insightful therapist friend pointed out that I'm not just managing stress levels. I'm also enhancing cognitive functions like memory and auditory processing, which she deemed invaluable at this stage of life. In terms of my daily well-being, this simple act has truly become my own "ode to joy."
