One day, an older man, perhaps in his seventies or eighties, approached me in the pool at the end of a finished lap to ask me what I did for a living. I was not shocked by his approach; this sort of encounter happened a lot in Japan, especially in rural Japan, but even in cities where the presence of foreigners was relatively rare at the time. Many Japanese are interested in foreigners, and in their choices to live in their ancestral homeland, and some of them are brave enough to ask a complete stranger “Why are you here?”

I told the man that I had recently moved to Kyoto to do research at the local university.

“Wow!” he cried, “You must be very smart. I can see that you can swim, too. Do you also play a musical instrument?”

“No, I do not.” I answered, and I may have also apologized for disappointing him, because by then I had learned that the Japanese way involved a lot of apology.

“Why do you ask?” I said, getting curious myself.

“Well, you have to do all three, you see. You obviously know how to use your mind and your body, but do you also use your heart?” he asked, using the foreigner friendly (katakana) word for “heart” – hâto – to make sure I understood.

I left the pool, hit the sauna, and showered, thinking about what the man said. When I reached the club exit, he was waiting for me, waving a small piece of paper in front of his face.

“Ok, look,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “I want you to go to this music shop and buy something – any instrument will do. Do it today.”

“Hai”, I said, but thinking to myself, Wow, this guy sure is serious.

I took the piece of paper and read the name of the store – The American Musical Instrument Shop – and it had an address not far from where I lived. Had he picked this one shop on purpose, knowing I was from the US, to make it easy for me to remember?

“Thank you very much”, I said. “I am grateful for your advice”. I bowed deeply as I left the club.

But for reasons too personal to explain here, I did not go to The American Musical Instrument Shop that day, or even that week. It wasn’t that I wasn’t convinced that this man was offering sage advice; it was just too soon.

You see, I was living a very unbalanced life at the time. I wasn’t just wallowing in a breakup. I was also depressed, worked too much, drank too much, and ate unhealthily. Many of those predicaments preceded the breakup, and may have even precipitated it.

Anyway, it took me a long time to realize that the man wasn’t suggesting music per se; he was suggesting that I get back in touch with a side of myself I had neglected for way too long.

Maybe you’ll be delighted to hear that I did make it to a music shop in time, because the man’s advice stuck with me. In fact, it would not be a stretch to say that it ultimately did change my life.

That is because, a few years later, when the time was right, and I had healed enough, I met another woman.

She was a singer, and very musical, indeed. On many of our first dates, we sang together in the car. As we did, we talked about her musical journey, and I recalled the advice of the old man at the Kyoto athletic club.

A few weeks after we met, my new love and I found ourselves at the cash register of a music shop, buying a guitar. In the days that followed, I fiddled with it every day, sometimes gently and sometimes with reckless ferocity, as if I had to attack and coddle it to get out of it what I needed. Suffice it to say I was completely hooked.

Playing music was so much better than listening to it.

Together my new love and I continued to sing, and a few months later she became my bride. Today, we have three beautiful children together and even play in a cover band.

“That which was said to the rose to make it open, was said unto me.”

That was Rumi’s definition of love, and it was certainly what my wife – and the music we made together – did for me. But it was also what the old man from Kyoto had shared with me, too.

When I was first learning how to play, I often played my acoustic guitar alone, but it hardly compared with the thrill of singing to its melodies with my wife, or jamming with friends. It was clear to me that music was meant to be shared, and made with someone else. So, in time I mustered the confidence to invite others to jam, and eventually I tried my hand at electric guitar, too, because it’s amplification cuts through “the mix” in a way that acoustic never can. The catch, of course, is that if you are going to play electric guitar, or anything amplified, then you gotta know the notes you’re playing if you’re gonna play ‘em loud.

Looking back, I have no doubt about it: music shifts the focus of my life from work toward love and joy, and it helps bring my head out of the books and bring balance back into my life. Listening to music had helped me cope for many years, but playing helped me learn more about myself and, when I needed to, figure out how to transcend it.

I have an old friend in Kyoto to thank for that.