Dust off your violin
After many years of cajoling myself towards an adventurous life, I had a pretty solid grasp of what I was looking for. All I needed to do was get on with it.
But if adventure is about uncertainty and risk, there comes a point when more of the same no longer counts as living adventurously. I had ended up in a comfort zone, even if it involved deserts and wild places. It was time to change direction.
For many years my favourite travel book had been As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning. Laurie Lee walked through Spain in the 1930s, playing his violin to fund the journey. It is a beautiful story and the idea of recreating it tantalised me.
But for 15 years I kept chickening out. I couldn’t play any musical instrument. The thought of having to perform or sing or dance in public is my idea of hell.
But I could never quite get the idea out of my head. The thought of busking seemed horribly vulnerable. I had never attempted anything like it before. I would probably fail. It was ridiculous. Or, to put it differently: it sounded like an adventure and precisely what I needed.
On a whim, I took out my phone, Googled for a local violin teacher and dashed off a quick email. That was my Doorstep Mile action – one email set everything in motion after 15 years of barriers and doubt.
I quickly learned that the violin cannot be quickly learned. I had wildly overestimated how much I would be able to learn in seven months. But I worked hard at the infernal instrument, concentrating only on the day’s homework rather than the nerve-wracking ultimate challenge of depending upon the violin to earn my next meal.
I had to face the sorry fact that I was terrible: nobody would give me any money! The trip was going to be an embarrassment and a disaster. The sensible compromise was to take my wallet and just busk for a bit of fun. More sensible still was to postpone the trip for a year or two until I could actually play the violin.
Fortunately in life, however, the only sensible options are not the only options. I turned up in Spain, and I began.
I emptied the final coins from my pocket and piled them on a park bench. Then I walked off into Spain one midsummer morning to see whether I could survive for a month with no money.
The first time I set up my violin to play was the most scared I had felt since the day I set off to row across the Atlantic. Isn’t that crazy? Rowing an ocean is a frightening thing to do. There are storms and salty buttocks. But what was I scared of on that sunny morning in Spain?
What I was afraid of was all the vulnerability inside me, the most significant stuff of all. The baggage we hide away and hide behind. The demons that stop us living as adventurously as we dream of. The things that I hope this book has provoked you into exploring within yourself.
I stood alone in that plaza, sawing away at the violin. I could hack my way through five terrible songs, each about 30 seconds long. I looped round and round while my heart sank lower and lower. I was embarrassed, sure to fail and dreading having to acknowledge that to myself and the world.
An elderly gentleman had been watching me from a bench in the plaza for a long time. Eventually, he stood up and walked over to me, leaning on his walking stick. I thought, ‘Uh-oh, I’m in trouble now. He’s going to say, ‘Señor, enough. Clear off. Please, give us back our peace.”
But he didn’t say that.
Instead, the man reached into his pocket. He pulled out a coin, and he gave it to me. I thought my heart was going to explode with delight, relief, amusement and surprise. I’d done it! I had earned a coin from playing the violin.
Before the trip, when I was on the verge of backing out of the whole venture, I made myself a deal. ‘Don’t worry about the whole trip. Just go out there and earn one Euro. That’s all you need to do. With a Euro, you can buy a bag of rice. With a bag of rice, you can walk for a week. After that, we’ll talk…’
I spent a month hiking cross country through the beautiful landscapes of northern Spain, dropping down into villages every couple of days to earn enough money for the next stage. It was a magical experience. But the hundreds of miles and the nights under the stars were not what made it special. I’ve done that stuff half my life.
The adventure out in Spain was standing in a plaza in front of a handful of people and declaring, ‘here I am. This is all that I have got. This is my best shot.’
Play the next song. Earn the next coin. That is all we can ever do. The violin was the adventure.
***
I spent most of my 20s and 30s chasing a specific manifestation of an adventurous life. That carefree vagabond dream changed as ‘real life’ arrived and I evolved from carefree AdventurerTM to busy Dad.
I still try to live adventurously but have had to modify how I do that. Sometimes it works fantastically, at other times it frustrates me. This year I have merely scheduled time in my diary to climb a tree once a month. But that has made a far bigger difference than I could have imagined.
So as someone who exchanged ambitious dreams of a life on the open road for a cup of tea up an oak tree, let me finish by saying this. I don’t think we should pin our hopes on one adventure of a lifetime. Instead, we should strive for a lifetime of living more adventurously every day. Do something daily that excites you, makes you happier, fulfilled and curious. Something that scares you a little. It is the process that is important, the direction you walk, not the notional outcome at the end of that journey.
An email to a violin teacher. A morning text message to your friend about that idea you always dream of late at night, a meeting at work about a new project. However ambitious your ultimate dream, whatever you decide to start with and build into a habit ought to be really small. So small that there is no reason not to do it today.
What step will you take right now to get you across the doorstep and set you in motion towards living more adventurously?
Good luck.
Over to You:
What would be your personal equivalent of busking through Spain?
When will you begin it?
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