On where my music comes from

I started playing the guitar this spring; I am taking great joy in the daily musical habit.
Within the confines of my bedroom, as I merrily strum away, it is easy to imagine myself a miracle of musical magnificence.
I am pretty much a rock star behind closed doors. This is the very same phenomenon experienced by thousands of singers every day in the shower.
The truth of my skill is less glamorous than my imaginings, alas. While I think I can play "Amazing Grace" with some proficiency in private, an audience helps align my perspective with reality. Instead of "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.." it becomes" A......maz...ing....Gr (oops) rrrace....hooow....sw...eeet....(oops)....eeet...the.....s'nd."
I have not received instruction long enough to be considered terrible, though, so that is a comfort to me.
It's a good idea to learn new things when one is middle aged. It's supposed to help keep the brain from atrophy, or Alzheimer's, or something. Sudoku is one option, sure. But I can't ever win that without cheating extensively. (Speaking of cheating, remind me to tell you about Aaron's Monopoly playing skills.) So, guitar seemed like an intriguing option.
Don plays guitar, as does Tim. We have half a dozen guitars around the house. Don actually inspired my launch into this project by preforming for Tim and I. He played and sang two songs for us, with a mandolin accompaniment. A-maz-ing. I listened to this mini-concert with tears rolling silently down my cheeks, as any self-respecting mother would. Dry eyes were not possible with my 16-year-old boy singing and playing like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was beautiful. It was also a gift from him to us, as he was committed to the state of Idaho for an extensive drug treatment program. He sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," and "We're going to be friends." Tears streaked my face, my throat burned from holding back a total breakdown, and my heart roiled in confliction. I was immensely proud of him, and swimming in grief, all at once.
This was mid-April.
I started guitar lessons two weeks later.
Guitar is a tangible way for me to feel closer to my son, whom I miss with stunning intensity. Missing him makes it hard to breathe. Playing is also a way to work out my grief and shattered hopes. It very much embodies the things that I cannot otherwise get my mind around. It's a very productive therapy.