The other day I was at work – well they pay me so I have to show up – and I was typing when I realized my fingers were hurting. More specifically the fingers on my left hand. It was actually a rather lovely feeling. It made me realize that my hard work was having an impact. Although not in quite the way I was expecting. At least not yet.

You see, I’m learning to play the ukulele. It’s fun. I’ve never played a musical instrument before so this is the first time I’ve really put any time/energy/thought/effort into learning one (OK, there was the time when I was ten and I was trying to learn the viola but it’s a really long violin and I had short arms so that was never going to work, plus you try walking home when you live in one a housing project in one of the toughest parts of the East End of London not only wearing a school uniform but also carrying a viola and see how long you’ll last). Anyway, the sore fingers were from pressing down on the strings. All of a sudden the tips of my fingers were tingling from the effort.

It’s so fascinating to try something new like this, so completely different to anything you’ve done before. I grew up listening to rock music, going to see some of the great guitar players of the world play live, everyone from Jimmy Page to Richard Thompson, Ry Cooder and Pete Townsend, and this was the first time I truly understood how amazing they are. The ability to move your fingers that fast and that precisely, not just hitting notes but putting passion and feeling into them, is extraordinary. But it’s only when you try it yourself, however stumbling and bumbling that you really get a good appreciation for what they do.

It’s unlikely I’m going to be joining the Pantheon of Rock Gods anytime soon. There aren’t too many ukulele players up there – at least not yet. But it’s fun to learn something new, to gain a deeper appreciation for something familiar, to think about how I can grow and develop.

Of course the learning curve is steep. And not just in terms of playing. I grew up calling it the you-kelele. I was told in no uncertain terms the other day its pronounced ooh-kelele.

I have so much to learn. But that’s what is fun about life. The fact that you never stop learning, that there are always challenges, always new things to try and wrap your brain around, whether it’s the latest version of  “iWhatever” or a musical instrument. That everything around you is in a constant state of change, and that you are able to change and grow with it. You don’t have to stop and keep doing the same old things because that’s what you have always done. You don’t have to assume that the person you are today is the person you will always be.

You can change. You can grow. You can try different things. You can learn new things. That doesn’t mean you abandon who you are or what you have always loved. It just means trying out new things, new ideas, new ways of seeing the world.

Ain’t that fun!

Did you hear about the woman who played the lute for 15 hours straight?

She ended up with minstrel cramps

(OK, I admit it, jokes about femine hygene are the lowest form of wit. Period)

I love being up just after the sun has risen. OK, let me rephrase that. I hate getting up but I love being up just after the sun has risen. There is something magical about that time of day, there’s a freshness to everything, the streets are quiet and there’s a sense of possibility about the day ahead.

But what I love most is the silence, the lack of cars or other noises that assault our ears the rest of the day. It’s such a wonderful sound that it makes it worth the effort to drag myself out of bed just to hear it.

There is a line in the W. B. Yeats poem, The Lake Isle of Inisfree, that always comes to mind in that early hour;  “And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings”

Such silence is a rare and precious commodity, so we have to enjoy it wherever and whenever we can.

The other day Shirley and I were walking on a trail in the woods alongside a reservoir. It was gorgeous. Sunlight streaming through lush greenery, the wind whipping tiny waves on the water; the only sound was bird song and the wind blowing through the trees.

And then you heard it. At first muffled, then louder, accompanied by the slap of feet on the ground and heavy breathing. It was a too-loud iPod pumping music directly into a jogger’s ears, and overflowing out to taint the world around  her.

The music got louder as she drew level with us, and then, as she plodded puffing off into the distance, the sound gradually disappeared with her, but it left me a little sad that here she was, surrounded by beauty and wonder, and she was shutting herself off from it.

I know that running can be tough and sometimes you need a little something to pep you up, but this gal was running along a beautiful country trail, surrounded by incredible sounds and she was blocking them with some raucous rock.

Now, not only is too-loud music bad for your hearing (as someone who spent too many years listening to too loud rock I can tell you that it takes its toll over time) but it’s even worse when you have the source directly inside your ear. Even Apple’s own iPod manual has a section saying “Warning: Permanent hearing loss may occur if earphones or headphones are used at high volume.” Yet to pump that into your ear when you are already surrounded by wonderful sounds seems a terrible waste.

How often do you get to be in a place that is so quiet that you can hear the world as it used to be, uncontaminated by planes or cars or industrial sounds? Not very often. So why would you choose to ruin one of those few occasions by blocking those sounds with music you can hear anytime, anywhere.

Sometimes we just get so caught up in our day-to-day routines that we fail to see the wonder around us, fail to appreciate that just being quiet and listening to the world can be an amazing experience.

It’s not hard. All we have to do is turn off the music and open up our minds. It’s right there in front of us, if only we listen.