Falling out of a story
I’ve done it.
Just a few minutes ago, I logged into YouTube Studio, typed a few words, then I… clicked “publish.”
Drumrolls: welcome to the Diaries of a Forgotten Flute, formerly known as Shakuhachi Diaries!
It feels so very strange. There’s grief, butterflies and fear fighting for attention in my stomach right now. It’s not comfortable, to say the least, but it feels right.
You’re probably wondering why this seems to hurt so much. It’s just a name swap, isn’t it?
The channel’s content is still the same.
I’m still the same.
But am I?
Not really. Actually, I grew the moment I renamed the channel, because I finally integrated something I didn’t want to see.
When I first picked up a shakuhachi, it was like falling in love.
The channel was there to track my progress as months went by, and that’s exactly what it did.
It reflected back to me my real, honest practice.
The trouble is, what I saw wasn’t matching the tale in my head: Odrey’s beautiful shakuhachi journey.
Instead, the channel was documenting Odrey’s chaotic and passionate hitoyogiri adventure.
So my brain, being a fantastic, trickster, protective tool, did its job to perfection.
It weaved the hard facts into a story that made Odrey’s shakuhachi journey hold together in my head — even if it wasn’t really helping.
My excuses revolved around deferral and reclassification.
- I could keep the name Shakuhachi Diaries because “shakuhachi is hitoyogiri’s ancient name,” reclassified the evidence.
- “I still play shakuhachi daily” shifted the subject from practice to what I was moved to share.
- “I’ll post shakuhachi once I’m better” deferred the reckoning to a future that never arrived because skill was never the variable.
Skill level was equal.
Drive wasn’t.
That was the whole argument.
Now that I see it clearly, I understand why it took me so long to face it.
Remember those feelings that caught up with me when I pushed that “publish” button?
Grief.
Hours per day spent playing, chapped lips, sore shoulders from the strain. Private lessons for which I toiled madly, two Menkyo I wasn’t happy with, a trip to Japan — I loved shakuhachi, I wanted it to love me back but bloody hell, it’s just a bamboo tube!
It dawns on me no amount of grit can make me good at it if my soul — or whatever intangible, ethereal part of me — doesn’t cooperate.
I became a decent player.
The “I hear that you put in the hours” type of player.
Never the “I can hear you truly connect with that flute” type of player that is just happening naturally with hitoyogiri.
But calling it an investment kept the guilt active, which in turn forced the story alive: as long as the myth survived, I still stood a chance to make it real — someday.
What happened today is both painful and liberating: I gave myself permission to forget the expectations I had about shakuhachi, allowing inconspicuous, simple little hitoyogiri to take that place because it really earned it — and because I have no choice, it just clicks!
If you read all the way here, maybe you can relate to this story, possibly in another aspect of your life. And if you do, I’m with you. Even if it’s a little bit sad, I feel it’s removing an enormous weight from my shoulders. I feel lighter, more aligned with myself and more energised.
I hope you do too.