The missing cello

The seach for the missing ingredient


Following is a summary of a story from the Introduction to Arjua Ardagh’s book, Leap before you Look.

Fred had always felt something was missing in his life. After years of research he came to the conclusion that he had lost his cello. From then on Fred became a dedicated cello seeker. He travelled the world, sought out teachers, and attended countless cello music concerts. He even joined support groups of people who were, like him, trying to rediscover their inner cellos. Fred became a professional cello seeker, subordinating everything else in life to the quest.

One day, when he was rushing to yet another support group, he ran into an old friend. Fred said he couldn’t stop to talk because he was on his way to his cello finders’ support group. But the friend brought him to a halt and said, “What’s that thing on your back?”

Well, you’ve guessed it, haven’t you? The thing on his back was a cello. Fred was amazed and overjoyed … he had at long last found what he’d been looking for.

There was a corollary to the story … having found his cello, Fred then had to play it, and practise so that he would get better and better and bring his gift to others.

(If you’re interested in reading the full story, which is beautifully told, go to the Sounds True website  where you can purchase the softcover book, ebook or audio download.)

The lesson to be learned, of course, is that many of us already have what we’ve been looking for. But while we can’t see it, others often can. With this in mind, I asked several insightful friends what they thought my missing cello could be. I’d rather hoped they’d all come up with the same thing, and that my path would then be clear. No such luck. It seemed I had a whole orchestra hanging around my neck.

One said I often needed the affirmation of others, because I couldn’t find it in myself. He pointed out that I already had the affirmation of others … and I had to admit he was right. People frequently praise me and my work, but a critical inner voice says they don’t know what good is. This is really stupid, because many of these people are very accomplished themselves.

Another said it was my ‘artist’. She said everyone else considered me an artist, though I didn’t accept it myself. I protested against this because, though I acknowledge that I have the potential to be an artist, I so rarely practise. You can’t call yourself an artist if you hardly ever create art.

Yet another, the amazing dream coach Jane Teresa Anderson , asked me what I yearned for in childhood. The reply came spontaneously, “excitement and adventure”. “That’s what my life lacks,” I continued, “excitement and adventure.” Jane began to laugh. “I’m sitting with a woman wearing a pirate scarf and an outrageous eyepatch, who’s lived in a very challenging situation for many years, and she tells me her life has no excitement and adventure.” I saw her point, and giggled. I thought about it a little, but then realised it wasn’t the same thing at all. What I had experienced was not excitement and adventure, but danger and insecurity. They can all go together, but they don’t have to. One could discuss this at length, but at another time perhaps.

I certainly don’t yearn for danger. I want the sort of excitement that makes me eager to leap out of bed in the morning.

It doesn’t have to be something ‘big’. Small stones will do.



2 thoughts on “The missing cello

  1. Captivating story as usual Meliasanda. I guess telling you that The I believe you are an artist will probably fall on doubtful ears, but I will continue to tell because I believe it whether you do or not. I love your “pirate scarf and an outrageous eyepatch”. Only an artist would sport creative attire!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s