Grandfather Clocks and A Cappella

Recently I've become aware of my life as represented by a metaphor of a musical pendulum. My grandparents have a huge old wooden grandfather clock with a hypnotic brass pendulum right in the middle. At quarter-past, half-past, and quarter-of the hour, it completes 1 quarter, 2 quarters, or 3 quarters, respectively, of a pleasant refrain which is only heard in its entirety on the hour. It is followed at that time by those obnoxious gong sounds which sometimes woke me up at night when I was little.

I started playing violin 11 years ago. I haven't stopped. This whole pendulum thing didn't exist until less than a year ago, when I started thinking I could sing and people started telling me I could sing and I thought, gosh, why not give that a try? Until January, 4 strings were all I knew. I lived and breathed those 4 strings every day and soon, even though I stopped practicing so diligently, they became my best therapists, my worst enemies, and my ever-goading challenges.

This past Thursday I had a scary thought that began to convince me of the changing direction of the giant pendulum of my music. It was the evening of GU orchestra auditions. I've been in the orchestra for the pats 2 semesters, so my place wasn't in jeopardy, and my level of preparation more or less reflected that. Still, I felt completely comfortable in that tiny room with interim director Popov as I played Melodie from memory for the millionth time since 8th grade, and I sightread some nonsense in 3/8 by Haydn.

I left feeling empty, as if I had just wasted 15 minutes with my violin and I felt guilty, I felt trapped. I felt like whatever I had played was maybe beautiful, but not interesting, and certainly not freeing. I was actually happy to be rushing off to a cappella rehearsal for the 4th time that week. And then I thought it:

"I would rather sing than play anyway."

GASP.

Typing it is even more frightening than thinking it.

I guess maybe I'll see if I can do anything to take violin in the same freeing direction as singing is for me. I guess I'll see if I can begin to remember how to lose myself in the violin as I lose myself when I sing. Stay tuned. I will too.

Old Habits Die Hard like Bruce Willis

Saturday I had planned to enjoy a nice little evening in. My mom went to a surprise birthday party for one of her relatives and so I was left in the house, flopped on the couch dreaming about getting up and actually doing something. I accepted an impromptu invitation for coffee with a friend - well, not coffee actually because it was already 9:00 and I have only slightly more tolerance for caffeine than my 70-year-old grandmother - and got up the energy to carry on a conversation for an hour and a half at Starbucks.

Everything was fine until I left Starbucks.

I drove home to find that my mother was still not home from her party at 10:30 and, hoping to avoid walking into my dark empty house alone, decided to drive around a little bit. Some background: I used to drive around a lot, back when gas was cheaper and I had more things to ruminate about in the comforts of my car. I would visit places I used to go, or places I knew other people were, or maybe sit in the parking lot of a park with Death Cab for Cutie on and think and be and feel oh so sorry for myself.

Saturday night I put the windows down and did my best to fill half an hour. As I drove around, for the first time on one of these drives I avoided the places I used to go, as if to say, hopefully, "I don't ever need to go back." At first I sang. Then I stopped singing without noticing. Then I turned off the radio. I thought as I arrived in the darkness of Dutch Mill on the East side of 141, why not speak? Why not talk to myself here in this car when I am most alone? Why not talk to God? So I did. I don't remember now what I said. I do remember being a little distracted by the road and thinking it wasn't quite the ideal place to have a conversation. But it helped. Weidman Road gets scary in the dark.