Tonight my father called, just as I had finished mopping and was settling down with my latest pleasure read, A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. He had an offer for me. He’d expected a bonus at work, but when he got the check it was much larger than he had anticipated. If I want to start playing my violin again, he wants to pay for it to be serviced, if it is within his capabilities. He said he remembered the story of when his dear friends moved to Iowa from Rhode Island years ago for the husband to attend medical school. The wife, who was an opera singer (and quite good; she taught me how to sing in my first church choir) was alone on the prairie with a new baby, no friends, and no money. She didn’t sing in public for an entire year. If you knew this woman or if you sing to live yourself you’ll know how painful this must have been for her. And indeed being without music—making it, the way I used to–is painful in ways I can’t describe.
His call was just what I needed. I’ve never blogged about this before, and I certainly haven’t talked about it with many people. It’s not just that it’s incredibly sensitive and private, but because I don’t understand it well enough to articulate it coherently. What I know is that until an hour ago I hadn’t played for well over two years, and not seriously in seven or so. I can hardly speak of why it happened, but sometime during college I started having major emotional episodes when I played. I would reach a difficult passage, and instead of just steadily working through it, gradually speeding up, adjusting my left or right hand, playing a few scales, or whatnot, I’d dissolve into despair. I can’t think of how else to describe it. I’d get absolutely blocked and inconsolable.
I have my theories: I have never been able to honor my love for depth and tone and musicality with the kind of technical proficiency it longs for and deserves (can love long, or just a person who loves?) and somewhere along the line it started to paralyze me. It may have something to do with the darker side of ADD, the part that stifles the very creativity it engenders. I don’t know.
So tonight, bolstered by my father’s offer and being in a very strong place emotionally, I got the violin out. I was terrified that the sound post would be fallen, the strings snapped, the bow hopelessly warped. But it was fine, more than fine. I will take it to a shop to make sure everything’s adjusted well, and I will have to get new strings and have the bow restrung, but it’s not the disaster I feared.
I started playing from the best place I know: I pulled out my old red hymnal. I am out of rosin so I was scratchy, and my pre-arthritic wrists and fingers protested even the tuning. But I remembered everything. And it was OK.
And all of the sudden I was playing a hymn that sent shivers down my spine. And then all of the sudden I was singing it, from the very bottom of me, to someone I know who is dying, someone who grew up with Baptist hymns.
He hideth my soul
in the cleft of the rock
that shadows a dry, thirsty land
He hideth my life
in the depths of His love
and covers me there with His hand
and covers me there with His hand
I don’t understand tonight or what happened or what portals opened but something in me has healed, or is beginning to heal.
and covers me there with His hand
If you enjoy beautiful videography and slow moving documentary films you should watch The Weeping Camel. I believe music is healing and this film has a beautiful example of that. I’m glad to hear you had such a wonderful experience.
I played the violin starting from when I was 6 until I was in college. I know exactly the feeling you’re describing. Good for you – what strength comes with it!
I am also a former violinist, and I do still miss it sometimes. Luckily, I still sing semi-professionally, and so I haven’t had to give up music — in the end, my schedule couldn’t handle both, and really, I’m really a better singer now than I ever was violinist. But I still miss playing in orchestras sometimes, it’s just a very different experience.
I can’t imagine how it would be to give up music, even for a short while. It’s such an instrinsic part of who I am. And I do agree that music can be healing — especially sung music, when the words speak to the depths of your soul. Last year, when I was suffering through my 4th failed IVF, and coming to the painful realization that I would never bear a child, my choir sang the Brahms Requiem. I couldn’t sing during the 5th movement, which Brahms wrote in memory of his mother. Really, the words are meant to be hopeful, but I couldn’t get past the line “As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.” I wound up sobbing through every dress rehearsal and performance. (Wow, still getting choked up thinking about it.)
Ye now are sorrowful;
but I will see you again,
and your hearts will rejoice,
and no one will take your joy from you.
As a mother comforts her child
so will I comfort you.
Behold with your eyes: but for a little
have I known Sorrow and labor
and found much rest.
P.S. I forgot to say that things are a bit happier for me now, since we are trying to adopt a baby. 🙂 (Of course, they’d be happier if we had the actual goshdurned baby!!)
What a beautiful post. So glad you got out the violin… keep playing.
Jess,
That was a stunnignly beautiful post. It gives me pause.
The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. Your father has incredible timing, what an amazing man. I hope your instrument brings you much comfort and peace throughout the rest of your pregnancy. xo
You know I’m thrilled to hear that you’re playing again!!! The baby will love it.
Great site, I will be back. Well done