For someone like me, recovering from years of perfectionism, that was a radical idea.

Free improvisation in music isn’t about being good. It’s not about knowing theory, practicing scales, or impressing anyone. It’s about letting go of the rules. Slowly. Gently. And finding joy in sound itself.

Free improvisation is a way of making music without predefined rules. There’s no sheet music, no fixed structure, no key you have to stick to. But that doesn’t mean it’s complete chaos. Often, the performers create their own frameworks: a mood, a texture, a shared prompt like “let’s play the forest at night” or “start quietly and build.” You follow your intuition, but you also listen deeply, responding not just to sounds, but to intentions. It’s not about doing anything. It’s about discovering something, together.

And in that open space, somewhere between structure and spontaneity, almost anything can become music. A cooking pot can be an instrument. Silence can be part of the piece. A squeaky chair can be a solo. There are no wrong notes, just moments. Reactions. Gestures. It’s incredibly freeing

I used to play guitar back in high school. I loved it. But life happened, and I stopped. Ten years passed. Every now and then I’d look at my guitar with guilt, like it was a friend I’d ghosted. I tried picking it back up, but everything I knew felt gone. My fingers were stiff. My brain blank. I felt like I’d wasted something.

Then a friend invited me to what was supposed to be just a two-month cycle of free improvisation workshops. That was a year and a half ago, and we’re still going. We even have a name now: the Rhizomatic Orchestra.

At the first rehearsal, I was terrified of messing things up, of disrupting the others with my lack of skill. I played on one string. One. But here’s what I learned: you don’t need to be “skilled” in the traditional sense. You just need to listen. To stay present. You make a sound that feels right. Or weird, or funny, or curious. If it clashes, you adapt. If it sings, you keep going.

And once you start, the instrument begins to change in your hands. The guitar stops being just a chord machine. You wonder: what happens if I use a bow? What happens when I put a piece of paper in between the strings? What if I don’t use the guitar at all? Suddenly, everything makes sound. Everything becomes music.

That’s the real magic: the reawakening of childlike curiosity. Not to “perform,” but to explore.

It’s so different from the classic “play something” scenario. You know the one when someone sees you with a guitar and says, “Play something!” And by “something,” they mean a cover of a well-known song.

I don’t know any songs by heart. I don’t have the time or desire to rehearse them. But I do love playing. I do love discovering new sounds. And I’ve learned that not knowing a single song doesn’t mean I’m not a musician.

Same goes for everything else. Can you paint if you can’t draw a straight line? Can you write a poem if you can’t rhyme? Can you dance if you don’t know the steps?

Guess what: you absolutely can.

You just need to give yourself permission to start small. To be curious. To listen. To open up. Not all at once, but little by little. It’s not a leap outside your comfort zone. It’s a gentle unfolding of it.

So if you’ve got an instrument gathering dust, or a voice that’s gone quiet, or just a bit of wonder left in you… play.
Not to impress. Not to prove. Just to hear what happens.

Because everything can become music. Even you.