Melodies of Retirement
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It was a chilly December morning when I unwrapped what would soon become my new passion—a Newlam kalimba. I'd just retired from teaching, a profession that had defined my days for more than three decades. Now, with an abundance of time but a lack of routine, I found myself at a loose end. Little did I know, this seemingly simple gift from my daughter Helen would open up a new chapter in my life.
Helen always had a knack for thoughtful gifts, and as I tore through the festive wrapping paper, her choice didn’t disappoint. Nestled within was a kalimba, its wooden body polished to a shine and the metal tines gleaming under the fairy lights of our Christmas tree. I must admit, at first, I was baffled. My musical talents had never moved beyond singing lullabies to my children when they were young. Yet, here I was, holding an instrument I knew nothing about.
The notion of learning something new at my age was daunting, yet the idea of music filling the quiet corners of my now still house was appealing. That night, as the celebrations dwindled and the grandchildren were tucked into their beds, I sat by the fire and plucked at the kalimba’s tines. The notes were clumsy at first, hesitant as my fingers found their place. But the sound was pure, almost crystalline in the stillness of the evening.
Over the next few weeks, I dedicated myself to the kalimba. The internet became my tutor, with countless videos and tutorials at my fingertips. I learned that the kalimba originated in Africa and was often called a thumb piano due to the way it is played. Each day, I grew more confident, my mornings filled with the melody of practice as I sipped my tea and watched the winter sun rise over the Mersey.
Three months passed in this way, the kalimba always close by, a constant companion in my journey into music. By then, I could play several tunes, from simple nursery rhymes to more intricate folk melodies. The sound of the kalimba became a soothing backdrop to my days, its music a bridge from my past life of structure to this new rhythm of retirement.
It was during one such evening, with spring whispering through the budding trees, that I found another purpose for my newfound skill. My two grandchildren, Jack and Lucy, were visiting for the weekend. Bedtime had always been a bit of a battle with them, the excitement of being at Nan’s house disrupting their usual routine.
That night, as I tucked them into the guest room, Lucy’s eyes wide and restless, an idea struck me.
“Would you like some music?” I asked.
Their nods were eager, curious. I fetched my kalimba and sat in the armchair by their bed. With the soft glow of the nightlight casting shadows on the walls, I began to play. The notes were gentle, lulling, a quiet lullaby that seemed to weave a spell in the dim room.
To my amazement, it didn’t take long for their eyelids to grow heavy, their breaths to even out in sleep. The simple melodies of the kalimba had done what an hour of bedtime stories could not—they had drifted off to the land of dreams.
From that night onwards, our bedtime ritual was set. The children would brush their teeth, hop into bed, and wait for their Nan and her kalimba. Each night, I’d choose a different tune or sometimes let them pick their favourite from the ones I’d learned.
The kalimba, once a stranger to me, had become a cherished part of our family’s evening. Not only had it given me a new hobby and a way to fill the quiet hours, but it had also given me a new way to connect with my grandchildren, to give them memories of their Nan that were unique and special.
Months have turned since I first received my kalimba, and it continues to be a source of joy and peace, not just for me but for my little ones as well. It’s funny how life can surprise you. In my years of teaching, I never imagined that retirement would introduce me to the joys of music, nor did I expect that a small wooden instrument would become so integral to my life.
Now, as I sit by my window, kalimba in hand, looking out at the bustling street below, I am grateful for the unexpected turns my journey has taken. This little instrument has not only taught me the power of music but also the beauty of starting anew, no matter the stage of life. It’s a lesson I hold close to my heart, a melody that will stay with me for years to come.
Helen always had a knack for thoughtful gifts, and as I tore through the festive wrapping paper, her choice didn’t disappoint. Nestled within was a kalimba, its wooden body polished to a shine and the metal tines gleaming under the fairy lights of our Christmas tree. I must admit, at first, I was baffled. My musical talents had never moved beyond singing lullabies to my children when they were young. Yet, here I was, holding an instrument I knew nothing about.
The notion of learning something new at my age was daunting, yet the idea of music filling the quiet corners of my now still house was appealing. That night, as the celebrations dwindled and the grandchildren were tucked into their beds, I sat by the fire and plucked at the kalimba’s tines. The notes were clumsy at first, hesitant as my fingers found their place. But the sound was pure, almost crystalline in the stillness of the evening.
Over the next few weeks, I dedicated myself to the kalimba. The internet became my tutor, with countless videos and tutorials at my fingertips. I learned that the kalimba originated in Africa and was often called a thumb piano due to the way it is played. Each day, I grew more confident, my mornings filled with the melody of practice as I sipped my tea and watched the winter sun rise over the Mersey.
Three months passed in this way, the kalimba always close by, a constant companion in my journey into music. By then, I could play several tunes, from simple nursery rhymes to more intricate folk melodies. The sound of the kalimba became a soothing backdrop to my days, its music a bridge from my past life of structure to this new rhythm of retirement.
It was during one such evening, with spring whispering through the budding trees, that I found another purpose for my newfound skill. My two grandchildren, Jack and Lucy, were visiting for the weekend. Bedtime had always been a bit of a battle with them, the excitement of being at Nan’s house disrupting their usual routine.
That night, as I tucked them into the guest room, Lucy’s eyes wide and restless, an idea struck me.
“Would you like some music?” I asked.
Their nods were eager, curious. I fetched my kalimba and sat in the armchair by their bed. With the soft glow of the nightlight casting shadows on the walls, I began to play. The notes were gentle, lulling, a quiet lullaby that seemed to weave a spell in the dim room.
To my amazement, it didn’t take long for their eyelids to grow heavy, their breaths to even out in sleep. The simple melodies of the kalimba had done what an hour of bedtime stories could not—they had drifted off to the land of dreams.
From that night onwards, our bedtime ritual was set. The children would brush their teeth, hop into bed, and wait for their Nan and her kalimba. Each night, I’d choose a different tune or sometimes let them pick their favourite from the ones I’d learned.
The kalimba, once a stranger to me, had become a cherished part of our family’s evening. Not only had it given me a new hobby and a way to fill the quiet hours, but it had also given me a new way to connect with my grandchildren, to give them memories of their Nan that were unique and special.
Months have turned since I first received my kalimba, and it continues to be a source of joy and peace, not just for me but for my little ones as well. It’s funny how life can surprise you. In my years of teaching, I never imagined that retirement would introduce me to the joys of music, nor did I expect that a small wooden instrument would become so integral to my life.
Now, as I sit by my window, kalimba in hand, looking out at the bustling street below, I am grateful for the unexpected turns my journey has taken. This little instrument has not only taught me the power of music but also the beauty of starting anew, no matter the stage of life. It’s a lesson I hold close to my heart, a melody that will stay with me for years to come.