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When I turned 40, I thought about things I still wanted to accomplish. Quite high on my list was to learn how to play the cello.

I had always loved the rich, sensual tones of that instrument and thought it would be fun and a challenge to learn how to play.

So I bought a second-hand cello and engaged a bright young man to instruct me. That same year, I took over a small business and the cello went by the wayside. Actually, it went by the fireside, where it looked quite smart leaning up against the mantelpiece.

The years flew by and I was kept busy with the demands of family and business.

This year I celebrated another milestone birthday. I looked at my cello, sitting neglected in the corner. The strings had sagged, the bridge was crooked and dust gave the f-holes a fuzzy appearance. I decided I either had to sell it or take some lessons.

Twenty years can see some significant changes in the body. I now have arthritis in my right shoulder and a cataract on my left eye, and my reflexes aren't what they used to be. Minor inconveniences.

I contacted a music studio near my flower shop and signed up for six months of lessons. I had a bit of difficulty filling out the application form. Under "Date of Birth" I wrote "B.C." (birthday confidential), and in the space reserved for "Parent or Guardian" I had to admit I am an orphan.

My teacher is a pleasant and gifted young woman, a concert cellist. When she plays a simple study, the sound is so beautiful I want to weep.

I, too, have been known to make people weep when I play, but more out of pain than pleasure. I understand the importance of practice, yet when I begin tightening my bow those around me scatter, donning iPods, earmuffs or other forms of protective headgear.

At first the cat seemed interested. She sat at a safe distance, her head moving back and forth as she tracked the erratic journey the bow was making across the strings.

Her tail began to twitch, then thump the carpet soundly. I should have heeded the warning signals. I was concentrating on finding the notes on that fretless instrument when, out of my good eye, I saw a furry ball with paws and claws hurtling toward me.

Fortunately, she hit the music stand first. As I gathered sheet music from the four corners of the room I thought about how lonely a musician's life can be.

Still, every Thursday afternoon, I pack up my cello, Rosebud, and bravely set forth. I climb the steps to the music studio with the same mixture of excitement and dread I remember having as a 10-year-old on the way to piano lessons. Except now I'm almost old enough to be my teacher's grandmother.

Funny how with age your perspective on many issues changes. I recall banging the piano keys in frustration as a child while I could hear my friends outside playing on a summer day — and I had to practise. Who wanted to study for a conservatory exam, anyway. The Beatles were in their heyday and I wanted nothing more than to be able to belt out She Loves You or I Want to Hold Your Hand.

Now I am quite thankful I learned how to read music, I have an appreciation for the classics and I practise to the point I am given gentle suggestions to desist.

Playing the cello is rather like patting one's head while rubbing one's belly. While the right hand steadies the bow (without the elbow flying off in various directions) the left hand finds the notes.

Great in theory, a little less than great in practice. The piano employs five fingers on each hand, but the cello enlists four fingers on the left hand to find the notes. My teacher grits her teeth and takes deep breaths as she explains for the umpteenth time that my "third" finger is my ring finger, not the one used for making rude gestures.

My progress is slow. I have been trying to play Study No. 10 for the same number of weeks. It is to be played andante, which I now know is not the same term used to describe undercooked pasta. Although my shaky fingers often resemble wet noodles.

I can't seem to get through the first two or three measures of No. 10 without making a sound not unlike that of a cat in heat. My instructor remains ever patient, offering words of encouragement and speaking in a soft voice.

When my bow isn't pointing skyward and I manage to hit a perfect note, just one beautiful whole note, the happiness I feel is worth all the struggle. Yo-Yo Ma's reputation is safe.

This experience, albeit humbling, has reminded me it's never too late to reach out for new adventures. Perhaps in another 20 years I'll try hang-gliding. I've always loved the idea of gliding through the air.

Linda Edwards lives in Mississauga, Ont.