The Birth of the Resurrection Guitar


I’d been there a week: sleeping in the empty nuns’ quarters above the hospital in Nuevo Progreso, a village in western Guatemala - the highlands - six hours from the capitol. In the days I’d play music I’d written for the villagers—for the sick and their families. In the nights I’d watch lightning storms rage far down the mountain, many miles away toward the coast and toward Mexico. 

When it came time to return to my life, I packed my guitar and got on the bus that snaked its way through the jungle. I fell in and out of sleep. 

It felt so real. 

I was playing my guitar, but the sounds that came from the strings were strange: wild and elemental, like a thousand lightning storms and like a mountain eroding away into dust and rising back up again. I looked down at the guitar, and found that the jungle had grown into it: reclaiming the dead wood and bringing it back to life. The music was a lament for the endless cycle of plants sprouting, flowering, dying and becoming dirt and growing again into new plants—the pain and joy of endless resurrection. 

The bus lurched. I woke up. 

And the Resurrection Guitar was born. 

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Eddy Undertow
eddy [at]

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