Delicate

I will start with this. There are days when it seems impossible to focus on beautiful things. Or heartless, maybe. What kind of denial is that, to hide yourself in prettiness when you know what you know about this world? And yet those are the days I most need to hide. My only thought is that maybe it's not always denial. Maybe sometimes it's more like the opposite, when you agree to hold the hard things in one hand, and the beautiful in the other and refuse—refuse—to deny either one.

I know I will keep hiding myself in what is good. I want to rest there, draw strength, share what I find with others—not in denial of what's hard, but in spite of it. 

Here’s one place I hid today:

Not in the actual place, but in the memory of it. By now everything in this picture is older, more uniform, less delicate. But the picture remains. The day I took it, the scene took my breath away. Green—all the many shades of it—takes my breath away. New glowing chartreuse, translucent lime green, fresh grass green, still water green, shadowy woods green, emerald leaves against a blue sky green. The variations are unending. Spring green isn’t a single color from the Crayola box, it is its own whole spectrum. Delicate, but vast.

Over and over I find myself drawn to what is delicate.

“Delicate  [del’i-kat] adj fine in texture; fragile, not robust; requiring tactful handling; of exquisite workmanship; requiring skill in techniques.”

But here is what strikes me: something that grabs me, takes my breath away, changes for a moment how I see the world—what do you see in that?

I see power. Fragility and beauty and something-beyond-grasp that somehow equal power. The kind that surprises, sustains, holds the whole world together. This is where I want to stay.

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What Did You Learn?

"Seed, flower, flower stem, we do not no"

Youngest is busy being a nature detective this morning. I think she’s been working towards it for a while, considering the piles that have been accumulating by the front steps all week. Her energy is unbridled. It looks like we may have figured out the cause of her months-long stomach ache, and this morning she woke up pain-free.

And so she is busy out in the sunlight—exploring, collecting cataloging.

She called me out to see the pile of dandelion heads she gathered a few days ago.

“Mama, look—they bloomed!”

“Well, yes. They did!” The more I think about it, the more I have to agree.

Still she turns my world upside-down, and I am thankful.

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Violin Project Update

The Violin Project has a Facebook page! Come visit and "like" it in order to receive updates and information, as well as to make donations*. And to show your support--I need people behind this, just as much as I need money.  And please share it with others. You never know who this is meant to reach.

*You don't need a Facebook account to make a donation there or get updates. The yellow Fundrazr "Give" button will take you to a page where you can make donations and  also sign up for updates by email.

Make it Beautiful

Saturday I bought a long thin loaf of stale French bread. Sliced it up, drowned it in eggs and sugar and cinnamon and raisins and coconut milk (Youngest is going dairy-free for a time, as we try to ease her stomach pain.) I poured it all in the pink speckled baking dish that belonged to my grandma, and nestled the pink baking dish in a pan of water in the oven. The whole house was warm and sweet with its baking. Yesterday we ate it for dessert.

Sometimes I call this cooking, sometimes I call it an act of war. Against stale bread, against the things I cannot control, against darkness in general.

It is profoundly comforting and hopeful to me that stale bread can be turned into something good. Maybe not exciting-good the way some desserts are, but still. I love that you can take something nobody would really want and turn it into something soft and warm and sweet. There’s a kind of magic in that. Or maybe art is a better word.

Of course, stale bread is nothing compared to what frightens me and angers me and breaks my heart. But to be able to do something, right there in the place I’m in—to use my own two hands to make something good—is powerful. Sometimes it is an outright act of faith.

If stale bread can have new life, what else can be transformed?

If there’s one streak of light in this place, maybe there’s more to be found.

And here you thought it was just bread pudding.

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Supermom

Yeah—I’m not Supermom. There’s plenty of proof of that just in how much I have to apologize to my children. And in conversations like this:

“Honey, I’m sorry. I got distracted for a moment and totally didn’t hear what you said. Would you tell me again?”

“Sure, Mom. But you’re always distracted.”

Stated as fact, not complaint. And it’s an exaggeration, but we both know my tendencies. I appreciate that most of the time he gives me credit for trying. Besides, when he announces that he’s the king of spacing-out he knows how well I get it.

But that’s not what I want to share with you right now.

I want to share what happens when my kids try to tell me I’m Supermom. Because even though by now it’s a well-established fact that I am not perfect, they can still make me feel like maybe I have a few superpowers.

Friday afternoon we ran errands. Last minute, of course. Oldest needed to buy a corsage for the 7^th and 8^th grade spring dance (still processing that one.) Middle needed accessories to go with her Genesis “Invisible Touch” tour t-shirt for her school’s Decade Night (still processing that one, too.)

Middle was excited-to-overflowing by her $5 white fake-Keds and clusters of black and glow-in-the-dark rubber bracelets:

“You’re the best mom in the world!”

Oh, big smile.

“Before I was born I went to the Mother Store and chose you, because you were the very best.”

Quick glance to see if I was eating it up. I was.

“You were the very last one there, and I bought you.”

Wait.

“Honey, if I was the last one there that might be because nobody else wanted me.”

Oldest jumped in. “You were too expensive.”

Good save.

“Yeah. I paid a hundred dollars for you!”

I love when my kids get all encouraging.

I love even more that when we have a conversation like this, even as it descends into absurdity/reality, I know without a doubt what they are really telling me.

And in that moment? Watch me fly.

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Endurance

Middle picked these flowers on Wednesday, when it was sunny and warm. I love these spontaneous bouquets—their delicate size, the translucent colors, the smile that came with them.

Thursday it was cold again. Raining.

And Friday—I told myself it was rain I was running in, early in the morning, but what hit my face was hard and biting, and there was sleet on all the car windshields.

The world around me is very, very green. Tender green leaf-lace on the trees. Tulips, magnolia blossoms, even a few first lilacs. But the air is winter-cold. I hold on to the reminders of spring around me and tell myself I can hold on, as well, for warmer weather and open windows and best of all that feeling that comes with it. It will come. We’ve had tastes of it. The flowers are proof. The warmth will come.

*     *     *

On the way to school yesterday, Youngest and I had a conversation we’ve repeated many times. She does not feel well. Her tummy hurts, has been hurting for months. We don’t know why. She is not too sick for school—she actually functions beautifully. But still it hurts, and we haven’t been able to stop it.

Often she thinks nobody believes her. She doesn’t talk about it much anymore, but when we ask nothing has changed. I tell her over and over that we believe her.

“The hard thing about this is that we don’t have any answers,” I said, trying to address the frustration.

The hurt itself is hard. But it seems doubly hard to feel or offer comfort when all you have is “I don’t know.”

I don’t know how long you’ll have to wait.

I don’t know why.

I don’t know how to fix it.

There are some strong words for how I feel about “I don’t know.” None of them are strong enough.

*     *     *

What I do know is that there are seasons for this kind of thing. I know people—so many of them—who have either been in this place recently or are in it right now. Walking through the cold and dark, waiting for the warmth to come back.

It strikes me that this endurance walk is a very quiet thing. But when I see others doing it I find strength. Little things bear witness—a hug, a handful of flowers, a note from a friend—they all testify that the warmth will come. And every person holding on to that belief gives me strength to walk it, myself.

There’s more out there than this cold.

What if we could actually see all the ways we keep each other on our feet?

*     *     *

Friday the sleet on my face made me fast—it made me fight.

This morning—Saturday—after a long night with a child who not only has a constant tummy ache but also now an infected tooth, I had no fight left. But I had a friend running beside me. I ran mostly because she was running. And together we covered a lot of ground. It’s still cold outside, and the tummy ache remains, and other things too, but there are flowers on the table, and I had the loveliest hot shower when I got home.

And we are still on our feet.

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Studio Recital

Every few months, at the end of a term, we gather together, all dressed-up, having practiced as much as we're going to practice, and give a recital for each other. It's experience-building, performing in front of each other. We play as a big group, in smaller groups, and alone with the piano. Everybody gets a chance to show what they've been working on, to bow, to hear applause for their work.

Everybody there, I think, knows how they would like things to go. Or maybe it’s just me, forever the idealist, who sees it all beforehand in its shiny, dreamy perfection. 

When I was a student, especially all those many years before I got serious about practicing, the image beforehand was probably a little hazy. I think it involved a flawless performance, an astounded audience, the realization that I was not simply a quiet little girl—I was a rock star. Of the violin, but still. And, naturally, a cute boy would fall in love with me because of how I played. After I got serious about practicing, the dream stayed pretty much the same, only with clearer details: a flawless up-bow staccato with a perfectly-relaxed arm, effortless vibrato, getting through That One Passage without messing up or losing my place. And after the whole thing is over—yes, to feel loved. Even after you know you are not doing this to be loved, does the desire for it ever really go away?

As a parent, I have a pretty clear image of how I’d like things to go: my child is clean and neat, we have practiced adequately, she will get through without memory slips or major mishaps. 

As a teacher, I have an even clearer image: I’ve taught each student everything he or she needs to know. I haven’t moved too quickly or slowly. I’ve convinced them all to practice/play in tune/pay attention/make beautiful sounds/not be afraid.

And in reality it’s always something different.

Sometimes you realize, mid-piece, that you really did not practice as much as you should have, and that this really isn’t going well.

Sometimes you have practiced. A lot. And still That One Passage gets you, the memory slip so bad that even your accompanist has to stop and wait for you to collect yourself and start again.

Sometimes you can’t even get your daughter on stage to play—she stands on the edge and cries and cries, and you have no idea if you should urge her to conquer her fear or take her in your arms and carry her away.

Sometimes you realize that while you spent all that time teaching your students how to hold their instruments, you never mentioned not running with them. And every child, upon finishing their solo piece, jumps off the stage and runs back to their seat, each one narrowly averting disaster, each one driving home the point that you forgot one of the earliest, most basic steps.

Sometimes you watch a friend playing, and he is so nervous, so shaky, that you feel sick for him. You would rather be up there yourself, experiencing your own stage fright, than watch what he is going through.

I’ve seen all those things and more happen through the years. You wonder, sometimes, why we have this ritual of performing for each other every few months.

And then, sometimes, you realize that that’s the thing—we try to perform for each other, and in one way or another we lay bare our humanity, instead. The real ideal is that we learn from that laying-bare: how to deal with the discomfort and messiness, how to love each other through it, how to resolve to try again next time, even though we know better than ever that things will fall short of our expectations.

Because it turns out that you can survive all sorts of stuff and still play, and that counts for a lot.

It turns out that seeing somebody else going through the same struggle as you can both open your heart wide and strengthen it.

It turns out you would rather have the love of people who are in the audience because of who you are than of the ones who love you for what you can do.

Best of all, it turns out everybody already knows you are a rock star of the violin. Your parents have always known, even when they wondered if they were wrong. All the younger students who look at you and see everything they hope to be some day—they know. So do all your peers who’ve watched you struggle with standing still or paying attention, who know that last time you would not even get on stage you were so scared, who know that you work extra-hard because you have Down Syndrome. They know what you did up there on stage, even if it wasn’t perfection. They know it was a triumph.

That is why they’re clapping.

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Violin Project Update: Inspiration, Fliers, and a Donate Button

If you are not familiar with El Sistema, Venezuela’s nearly 40 year-old music-as-social-change program, please take the time to watch this. Or, if you are familiar with El Sistema, maybe watch it anyway. Because it’s a beautiful vision and a beautiful program, and there is so much to be learned from it. And because it's part of the inspiration behind The Violin Project.

Fliers went home with Kirksville Primary School kindergarten and 1^st-grade students on Friday, introducing this project. If you know a child who might be interested in or might benefit from this program, now is the time to let me know. I am limiting myself to 20 students for this first year.

Also, I have a lovely little “Donate” button installed on The Violin Project page, meaning I am now able to accept donations online. Would you consider helping?

Questions? Comments? Brilliant ideas? Please share below.

*Update: My Donate button was not working at first, but the issue now seems to be resolved. Thank you for your patience!

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Hide/Grow/Reach Out: New-to-Me Books

Oh, this one in the picture has a lot of energy. All three of my kids are pretty intense, but this one’s energy is usually a lot more outwardly-directed than the others’. When she’s reading a book, though, it absorbs her fully. There’s something extra-delightful about that. It wasn’t too long ago that I wondered if she would ever sit down for a story. She is so busy, so physical. But no—when she reads, the book takes all that energy and draws it wholly into itself. This fits her personality, but I didn’t expect it.

I have been conscious, myself, of how I hide myself in books (or in making music, or creating things,) especially during hard or stressful times. Sometimes these things are escape, sometimes solace (not the same thing, those two.) But they are also places to grow. There is nothing like hearing someone else’s story to find encouragement and discover you are not alone. To seek wisdom and gain perspective. When it’s time to come back out of a book and engage your life, you have the opportunity to bring something new with you—hope, understanding, peace, strength, mercy—something. And with that something you have a new way to reach out.

How beautiful is that?

We must keep sharing this with the children around us.

To that end, I am (finally) adding to my Music Resources: Picture Books, Etc. page. The new additions are below. And if you haven’t visited this page yet, please do. I know there are books I’ve missed, so if there’s something that should be there that you don’t see, let me know in the comments!

Leave Your Sleep: A Collection of Classic Children’s Poetry, by Natalie Merchant, illustrated by Barbara McClintock, Farrar Straus Giroux Books for Young Readers, 2012

I adore books like this—fabulous words, beautiful illustrations, and a full-length CD—in my mind that pretty much covers everything you could want. This collection was inspired by the poems, stories, and songs Natalie Merchant shared with her daughter in the first six years of her life. This is a wealth of good literature, and good art, and good music.

For the Love of Music: The Remarkable Story of Maria Anna Mozart, by Elizabeth Rusch, paintings by Steve Johnson and Lou Fancher, Tricycle Press, 2011

Maria Anna Mozart (Nannerl) was as much a child prodigy as her younger brother Wolfgang Amadeus. The two traveled and performed together all over Europe for several years. But when Wolfgang and his father left on a second trip, Maria was left behind. From that point, the siblings’ lives took different courses. Written in small segments following the form of a piano sonata, this book details Maria’s life, showing how music permeated her life, even though her opportunities as a woman were much different than her brother’s.

The Other Mozart: The Life of the Famous Chevalier de Saint-George, by Hugh Brewster, illustrated by Eric Velasquez, Abrams Books for Young Readers, 2007

Born in the West Indies in 1745 to a slave mother and wealthy plantation-owner father, Joseph de Bologne-Saint-George was raised and educated like a gentleman. When Joseph was eight his father sold his plantation and moved to Paris, bringing Joseph and his mother, now both no longer slaves, with him. He also re-named his son, giving him the title Chevalier, which was equivalent to a knight. Joseph was bright, talented, strong, and handsome, and he made a name for himself in France as a brilliant fencer, an accomplished musician, composer, and conductor, and later in life as the first black colonel in the French army. He was famous and accomplished and admired, but he also had to navigate a world in which his opportunities were quite limited by the color of his skin. His fascinating story is told in the context of the world of his time, with brief interludes telling about Paris, Haydn, Mozart, Marie Antoinette, and the French Revolution scattered through the book.

Little Stevie Wonder, by Quincy Troupe, illustrated by Lisa Cohen, Houghton Mifflin Company, 2005

The story of Stevie Wonder’s life, told in energetic, poetic language and vibrant illustrations. Accompanied by a CD with two of his songs, “Fingertips,” and “Uptight (Everything’s Alright.” This is as much a tribute to the man and his work as it is a biography.

Woody Guthrie: Poet of the People, by Bonnie Christensen, Alfred A Knopf, 2001

Woody Guthrie had a hard, poor life from the start, but when he traveled from Oklahoma to California in search of a better life during the Depression and found only more hardship, and saw the plight of other migrant workers like him, he made it his mission to become their voice. He spent his life traveling across America, talking to migrant field workers, miners, and factory workers, turning their stories and their struggles into songs, as well as championing the rights of workers and the importance of unions. 

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Dream With Me

I’ve been working on a project, and I’m really excited about it, and I need your help.

I want to flood my town with violinists.

Not because playing violin is the end-all. I would be happy to flood my town with French horn players, and percussionists, and pianists, and writers, and painters, and sculptors, and dancers, as well. Maybe someday I can make that happen. But for now, because teaching violin is something I know how to do, I will settle for lots and lots of violinists.

Because learning how to play violin is easily one of the most important things I’ve ever learned. It has taught me about problem-solving, and perseverance, and hard work. It has taught me about beauty and art. It has taught me about working with others, and humility, and community.

Beyond all that, learning how to play an instrument gives a person a voice. (So, of course, does learning how to dance, or draw, or sing, or write.) It gives a person a way to take what is inside and bring it out, to take what is sometimes un-tangible, unspeakable, or un-translatable, and share it soul-to-soul. That is a powerful tool to give somebody, especially a child.

If you haven’t guessed already, I don’t believe learning to play the violin is simply about learning to play the violin. Playing an instrument is a wonderful thing, but I don’t think I’d make such a big deal out of it if that was all there was to it. What learning to play the violin is really about is working to become a better human being. And that’s something that reaches way beyond one child taking lessons.

So I’m going for it. I have a wonderful private studio of 18 students, but I want to reach deeper into my community.

Want to know more? Want to help? Check out my new page here. 

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