The Imposter Inside Looking for the Light

In Canada. We stayed one night at one hotel with a different reservation and we're at another hotel this evening. Now, caught between the check-out time on one end and check-in time on the other, I am currently homeless.

I'm trying not to look at this as a punishment for having written such a terrible and irreverent quiz yesterday ...

To make matters worse, the front desk is totally inept and incapable of asking a few guests to kindly relinquish the printer in the tiny business center for two minutes while I print my theory homework I could be working on. This leaves me here typing on my phone about random thoughts and listening to more Tchaikovsky Concerto recordings.

Itzhak Perlman's recording from my youth will always be dear--he inspired my love of the violin. I will never forget my ten-year-old fascination with the magical and impossibly fast music I heard coming from my small cassette player. David Oistrakh seems to hit squarely in the center of my conception of this music. His risks, his imagination are reigned in by some kind of personal intelligence about Russia, about what Tchaikovsky was driving at with his music--though, perhaps, with the somewhat staunch resolve of Oistrakh himself maintaining the high ground weaving itself through his phrases and rubato, connecting them to an overall apprehension. Jascha Heifetz--always Jascha. Of course you want to hear it ... who wouldn't? If Heifetz has a down-side, it's that he, like The Beach Boys, is so accessible, so likable, it could trivialize what he makes sound so effortless and right. It's terribly foolish to imitate his personal inflections, however, in my view. I so admire Silvia Marcovici, Erica Morini plays gorgeously and several of the modern violinists--Julia Fischer's recording, and many others.

I only just have my fingers around this concerto, a slight beginning to the interpretive process ... *sigh* (excuse me while I toss my mountainous hair onto the floor as I throw my head down into my lap in front of the huge line in front of the check-in desk. No one will notice. They are all business people here for conventions. They are making small talk and impressing each other).

What if I'm a phony? Imposter syndrome had me out of the violin program and married more quickly than a Seattle mudslide in May. The full weight of my choices looms so large. I have opinions and a glimmer of a vision somewhere scrawled on a little scrap of paper shoved behind large stacks of cookbooks and dishes, lit by a crack in the door of my brain, but I'm afraid. I'm not like any of them. I'm not as good. I didn't grow up the same, I don't have the same views and I don't even understand why they all think certain things are so beautiful. I do understand being moved by music and I'm glad everyone finds something they love, but sometimes I feel so disconnected from popular opinions, I don't know that anyone would understand my thoughts.

Also. Who is humble? The one offering correction or the one taking it? *Deep sigh* But my heart is wide open for the corrections, so it doesn't matter. Everyone has an opinion and freedom to make choices, which is the sanctity of a heartfelt musical offering. I just listened to twenty or so, which may be my better contribution--above playing--listening. To learn.

And still, none of that really even matters because first of all I'd just like to play clean, which I never seem to be able to manage ... in this case, I feel like all my opinions are a moot point anyway.

When I am discouraged like this I tend to think of Nephi who seemed to find courage even in the darkest moments ... 

I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandment to the children of men save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.

So many questions in my life have been answered by this fundamental belief I could do anything God asked--would do anything he asked. I'm his girl ... but he's not one, usually, for giving commands or exceptions. Most of us have to muddle through most of it having faith he'll show up. He usually does, at the last possible second.

I'm coming to him pretty broken this time ... 

Here is everything I could manage, all the things I could do and it might not be enough. I might not be what you thought. I might not be what you want me to be. I might fail. You gave me safety and I am grateful, but I will let you have that too. Please lead me, give me your vision. Be my vision. 

I am nearing the end of another read through the Book of Mormon. I probably read through it twice or sometimes three times a year. I find so much comfort in those pages. At this point, I could care less where it came from or who wrote it because the feeling I get when I read it is indescribable. It is like the fruit on the tree of Lehi's dream. When you've tasted it, you know. Reading that book changes me. There are plenty of difficult things in it, all of which I have grappled with and been on my knees to understand, but none of it can replace an unsophisticated, humble little girl faith that was rewarded with an unshakable testimony of that book when I was seven years old. I believe in it more than I believe in Tchaikovsky. More than Bach ... but I think maybe at least Bach would be okay with someone, even with my insufficienies and quirky faith, taking a crack at his music--that we may sing together. I suppose if I'm willing to devote myself to Bach and Tchaikovsky, maybe they wouldn't mind reading a book ... the good things, the best things belong to the same place. 

Maybe it always feels like being an imposter until you open the door, walk inside, look for the scrawled scrap of paper illuminated by a shard of light and let the rest of the light in.

Finally got to check in ... Hello Vancouver! And it's a room with a view!!!

Look!!! A green building just for me! 💕

Would You and Tchaikovsky Be Friends?

In a hotel in Canada, I finished learning the first movement of the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto.

I am trying to be excited about it, but it feels like the half of me I want to be happy with me is still in another country. I am separated from myself or something. This is different than my narrator and myself. I think my narrator is quelled, distracted by a cookbook project and waiting for a new computer to launch the next takeover. Strange days, but I soldier on ... with my daisy sunglasses (everyone under age 17 thinks they're better than ten cookies).

I've been at this long enough, sometimes the routine starts to cloud the enchantment of accomplishing these lifelong dreams. I definitely need to unearth the creativity soon-ish. Like right now. Maybe I need to get to know myself better ...

Therefore, it's now time for a FB-esque multiple choice quiz called "Would You and Tchaikovsky Be Friends?"

Heh hemmmm ... here we go ... (not a scientific quiz, but then, if this is truly FB-esque, we're already pre-supposing a total lack of research or even basic knowledge).

1. Are you more likely to:

a. keep a dust mop in every room in case of spills and/or unwelcome dust invasion in your tidy environment 

b. fill one room with several layers of projects and papers, become overwhelmed, realizing your Lord of the Rings sword replica cannot, in the end, fight off the paper monster, at which point you close the door, blockading it and taking up residence in another part of the flat until you can negotiate a peaceful surrender.

c. hire a maid to chase your papers and file your dog.

d. chase your maid

2. On a lovely evening, would you rather:

a. fake like you're sick so when your friends come to make you go out with them you can apologize and go read or binge watch TV shows with your doggie.

b. go to a favorite café with your most erudite friends to discuss politics and Shakespeare

c. listen to all your most popular compositions, soaking in a bath eating chocolates, exulting in your genius

d. take a long walk with the woman of your dreams 

3. For Breakfast, are you more likely to eat:

a. Buckwheat and coffee

b. Mushroom quiche

c. Sausage and latkes

d. Crumpets, scones and tea

4. While traveling, are you more likely to:

a. stay with friends wherever possible, even when they try to introduce you to all their most eligible long distance relations

b. find a quirky Airbnb somewhat off the beaten path

c. let sweet "Aunt Edna" of an in-home bed and breakfast take care of you, as the sweet long lost child she knows you must be

d. stay in a hotel that's clean, private and close to a walking path

5. If you had time on a nice spring day, would you most likely be:

a. walking in a forest picking mushrooms

b. visiting a library

c. going to a museum

d. secretly meet with your patron and muse in a park

6. You are most likely to attend a concert called:

a. Vodka, Caviar and Big Russians--Five to Be Exact

b. Mozart Maladies: the Case for Salieri

c. Brahms and Clara: the Full Score

d. Baroque-n Bach: Cellists Struggling Through the Suites

7. Dealing with uncomfortable difficulties of your past, you're most likely to:

a. live up to your responsibilities quietly and with equal parts compassion and disdain

b. What situations? I don't know of these situations?

c. Obviously, this question could not apply to me because it's always other people's issues. I don't cause problems.

d. invest in better therapists and cry nightly into your bottle of booze

8. Your favorite poet:

a. Wordsworth

b. Shakespeare

c. Goethe

d. Keats

9. Your pet peeve:

a. cat owners

b. dirty clothes and people without table manners

c. people talking loudly in public 

d. interrupting

10. Your most likely exit strategy:

a. bathroom dash

b. urgent call

c. faked illness

d. you find yourself  in a room with three former lovers at any given moment and regularly bail without argument

Points: 

1. a. 5  b  2  c. 3  d. 0

2. a. 3  b. 5  c. 2  d. 0

3. a. 3  b. 5  c. 2  d. 0

4. a. 0  b. 3  c. 2  d. 5

5. a. 5  b. 2  c. 3  d. 0

6. a. 5  b. 0  c. 2  d. 3

7. a. 5  b. 2  c. 0  d. 3

8. a. 0  b. 5  c. 3  d. 2

9. a. 0  b. 5  c. 3  d. 2

10. a. 2  b. 3  c. 5  d. 0

35-50 points Best Buddies: Congratulations! You who enjoy manners, cleanliness, cats, mushrooms, long walks and Shakespeare are Tchaikovsky's doppelgänger! Given a Time Machine, you're just one awkward introduction away from sharing tips on cat litter and making mushroom lasagna with the man who turned a story about a giant Rat into a Christmas mainstay.

25-34 points Friends While you may not enjoy a Vulcan mind meld with the man who wrote music for weaponry, yet a basic understanding, appreciation and respect for one another may develop provided strict adherence to never seeking to introduce eligible sisters, nieces, cousins or mothers.

15-24 points Acquaintances One degree of separation based on a pretend quiz on a blog isn't too terrible! Use this auspicious distinction as inspiration to learn more about a composer with whom you have little in common, but whose music speaks to everyone whether or not they like cats.

0-14 points Individual Well done! You are unique and have virtually nothing in common with Tchaikovsky! Truth be told, this could very well work in your favor, not being creepy and same-y, especially if you aren't following the master on walks claiming you're best buddies based on an internet blog quiz.

Give me your answers and total up your scores people! Let's get to know you! Could you be Tchaikovsky's pal? I don't know (with the way things are currently going with his Concerto) that I could put myself in his circle, but I'm qualified to invent the FB-esque quiz by virtue of the non-existent criteria for doing so. 

😬😵‍💫 I wish playing his music were as lenient ...

        

Climb With Me

You are my lungs
                      and that which I inhale
             at altitude
where oxygen is scarce
                       and fear of collapse
              weighs heavy
in prickly lightning strikes
                       with dancing sight ablur,
              reeling on the edge
where scarcity of land makes
                       air less rare
               but not enough to breathe.

Why can't I exhale?

I feel these chambers swell
                        with the stinging clarity
              of knowing my elements,
the atomic shreds of my fragility,
                        and still this chest
              will only rise
when my mind ascends to you
                        among moist clouds
               of potent air
I cannot breathe in your absence
                         I only climb and wait
               for you.

Kimberlee

Usually I have to fight for my verses, but this one was special. It came almost without effort, as if I were dictating a prophecy.

I've been hacked, watched, worried, frightened, copied, hurt, insulted and more since the time I wrote it, but the words are the same and take on a different hue as a result of life's struggles.

My life is not my own. All my efforts to wrench my own direction from my own desires leads to disaster. Every time. I don't do that. I won't do that. For the intrepid souls who want to understand, you're welcome to ask God yourself and find out. Climb with me.

The Churning Winds Protect Life

In the early morning hours, the whooshing sound of helicopter propellers whirrs a consistent, steady texture of spring unfolding in orchards of blossoming trees. Giant windmill-like propellers dot the orchards stretching to the sky, spinning and drawing cold air closer to themselves, churning it in a protective barrier against the dangers of life choking frost. I've grown accustomed to the sound--the helicopters of spring--and often wake just to listen to the steady thrum.

In more desperate moments, when freezing temperatures threaten to kill new buds, they turn on the sprinklers, intentionally freezing the orchards to keep them alive. It's at once baffling and enchanting to see an orchard whose blossoms lie protected in a crystalline layer of solid ice, as if someone had applied a glistening layer of shellac to each bud.

This morning, blanketed in the awareness of the new life being sheltered outside my window, I was wandering in and out of thoughts of my busy day yesterday and some of the larger lessons I've learned in the last year, in what has been an incredible test of my faith. There have been times I thought I would wither ... struggling against my own elements threatening to rip me apart.

This time, I'm surviving with my wind machines in the sky, churning a steady rhythm, drawing the freezing air away and sheltering me from falling into a hypothermic sleep.

I tried to give all my violins away ... when my luthier learned of it from one of my mentors, he left me a pretty pointed message involving finger wagging and shame. I had to apologize and go retrieve some Heddon bows (worthless but also fun to play) he had restored for me. He's the talkative sort, and on the brink of giving up, talking with him about music lately has reminded me of it, churning up the cold air around me and stirring the life still struggling to bloom inside. When I went in to the shop, he allowed me to try some violins, mostly modern Italians, which are too brittle for my liking, but then he brought me the "whatever" violin with no provenance, no explanation but a big full-hearted sound--and cheaply obtained. Just 5K--reachable ... it won't answer all my problems, but after a few days with it, I'm growing into it, thinking it offers me a range I have struggled to find while working on the Tchaikovsky.

A "whatever" violin seems to suit me ... undefined, unboxed, mysterious.

Given a room full of whatever instrument I wanted at any price, I don't know that it would be my forever, but I'm growing into this little soul, and it may just win my heart and have a place with me. I am not blind to the miracles that seem to occur at the precise moment you're ready for them ... the teachers you need, the instruments you need, the lessons you need. For me, the violin is only a giant metaphor and expression of life itself--the evolving, growing, searching and redemptive functions of this temporary life school.

I've been reading through all of the old posts on this blog recently--some of which are fifteen years old! What a journey it has been. I smile at the person I once was and see how I've changed. Like a composer looking back at his older work, I'll admit some of my older posts are on the self-cringey side. I had so many opinions about violin playing! 😆 I'm afraid I have very few of them these days and feel more humbled every time my hands reach around the fingerboard.

If I'm settled on anything, it's that I find purpose and meaning in what I'm doing as direct communication with my spirit. I like to think when I play for others, it calls their souls forward too. Maybe sharing music from your heart is a bit like being a wind machine in an orchard, protecting the souls trying to grow from harsh life-freezing realities. Maybe it helps them to have faith--a steady, consistent music in the morning air.

Sadly, it's just as easy to let music become the frozen air choking the life out. It's tragic ... I hate to see it and it hurts even worse to hear it. I don't want to be that. Whatever skill I'm acquiring, please shelter me from that ... please don't let my music exist only under a crystalline glassy shellac layer of frozen ice.

Yesterday we talked about my vibrato not matching my bow speed. I understand, I take it into account and I strive. But, somehow, in the moment, I don't ever want to let the idea of what I'm supposed to achieve get in the way of the offering itself. Let the mistakes ooze out with the passion ... oh how it hurts to give that, to let that be, to submit and breathe. But then, how can one live any other way?

Amidst the bow and vibrato discord, I was feeling the magic ... I felt my life pour out into the notes. It was bliss. I have to thank whatever windmills in the sky are protecting my garden from the elements that would so easily destroy it. I see how maybe the education I wish I would have had, the papers I do not have, the credibility and experience I did not achieve and the accomplishments I did not run after were not the tragedies I thought, but may have aided in some protection. One must shelter and keep the love of music alive--it needs to continue to be a joy, which is hard to accomplish when it becomes a job.

For me, since I'm no good at running away from this (clearly), it has to be a matter of faith and the intention to preserve music in its purest form. It comes from the soul, it connects to the soul, it reminds us we have a soul. I hope not to choose things that would degrade or diminish the life!

Face Filled With a Hot-Dog Contemplating the Road Ahead

I am here in Utah, about to claim a little practice time; hence, this must needs be a truncated entry.

Sadly, I did not have time to work on my beloved Ballad, which addition to this blog will definitely come, but later. My husband likes me to read to him on long car drives, so what time I wasn’t shifting around trying to find a comfortable position or admiring my daisy sunglasses was spent reading “The Three Musketeers”—a book I haven’t read since I was twelve! I am realizing how much went over my head as a twelve-year-old during this reading 😆 … the nature of many of the relationships did not register to my pre-teen mind. 

The day before, I was read the riot act at my coaching session. Admittedly, my conduct has recently crescendoed to a crashing howling nightmare downbeat punctuated with an episode resembling sooty boots flung onto white carpet. It seemed reasonable, at the time I noticed a sticky key on my piano, to fix the problem by burning the piano down. Sadly, it gets expensive replacing the piano *and* it tends to annoy your music teacher who feels a base level of involvement requires having an instrument.

All of that is to say, I’ve been a mess. I’m confused about why I continue to play, what place it has in my life and other questions I never really cared about when I was young and wanted desperately for my teacher to let me play unaccompanied Bach. I let ghosts haunt me. I let the soot on my boots ruin the white carpet. Consequently, I have been terribly distracted, frazzled, not concentrating and barely making it through lessons. This is complicated by a general lackluster running away from myself because—what am I doing?

She’s sick of it. I had to make some promises and get up at 5am before our trip to get a couple of hours of practice as well as stealing an hour today. I was up extremely late last night talking with my parents, son and future daughter-in-law, but also on my mind is this promise to make some big progress.

The work and technical challenges have ceased to be the major struggle in my music making, replaced by confidence and personal distractions.

I had a lot to think about while I was reading aloud. It’s not my first read through Dumas, and not the most complex text, so I’ll admit while I was reading I was also thinking about everything my coach/teacher had to say. About halfway through the trip when we stopped at Costco to fill up with gas and get a hot-dog, I remembered something.

My friend in NYC owned one of the most luxury wedding dress shops there for twenty years. She eventually shut her doors, but not before she’d dressed dignitaries, celebs and had work featured on the cover of People’s best dressed list. One time she told me about the day she knew it was over. She was finishing a masterpiece—a gown to surpass every other in her career. She remembered putting the last bead on by hand, sewing the last stitch and knowing it was impossible to improve upon the perfection of that gown. Her work was complete and she had achieved everything possible to achieve in that form of Art. She felt both excitement and sadness because inside, she knew her Artistic journey had ended. I don’t know why this memory occurred to me as it has been quite a long time since that friend and I have really spoken, but it jangled around in my brain until I needed it.

Like the burst of cold air slamming my face walking out of Costco eating my hot-dog, I realized I haven’t reached completion. There is potential yet unrealized. I can’t be done yet. No matter how upsetting, frustrating or even traumatic the experiences surrounding this instrument can be, I’m not released from the journey. I cannot run from this.

Facing it:

Confidence is a major issue. In my brain, I’ve decided confidence will have to take a different hue. I can’t conceive of how to improve confidence in my abilities—there’s a lot of head issues there—so I can only think, for the time being, I will have to side-step the problem by developing more confidence in the notes I’m playing. Rather than thinking about myself, I will think of the notes and the confidence I have knowing they’re the right ones. This is my latest and greatest Jedi master mind trick. Feel free to borrow and exploit at your own peril.

I know I need to work on regaining my performance chops as well. I’m at a loss as to how to go about it. In the past, I answered this challenge by playing live on Instagram. It took quite a lot of courage to do that, but I would often pop on and play live “concerts” to give myself performing experience. Now that I have sworn off social media, I’m not sure how else to go about it.

Sometimes you have to trudge along in your sooty boots for a bit until things come into focus. Here’s the procedure:

Remember practicing … remember what it was like when I started this blog, when things were dark. Back then, it was just me and a music stand. I must de-age myself, have confidence in the notes in front of me. Face it. Focus. Remove distractions. Put the bow on the string and find my note.

An Empty Space Moves to the Trees

And so begins a new book … not a new chapter, a whole new book. The impact of the last few months is so deep, everything I used to be broke apart and now this blog is just a big empty space.

My finger types and there is a dog snoring at my side … an auspicious beginning?

Last night I threw myself into Tchaikovsky. I am taking the violin to Scotland—one of the perks of the peace treaty negotiated in therapy. The jury is still out about how it works--we’re both going to have to cope with the music inside of me. Things came to a head on that. It was brutal.

We’ll see. It’s an empty space. I would like to let things be different. 

Starting with Tchaikovsky. In the past, one of my weaknesses has been carelessness. One of the last things Mr. Rosand said to me revolved around that, and there are a few others who’ve made similar comments. There’s the mad-scientist aspect of my personality (the one who puts rosin under the couch cushion because she’s thinking about the transition between a high A and a D and how to trust the risky jump because there’s really no time to shift. And also … isn’t it remarkable the way monkeys can fly through trees and land so gracefully onto the branches? Fritz has such mangy hair—I need to brush him) needing to be managed. Or explored?

I’ve been dissecting this work with more focus, more commitment. Silvia Marcovici’s recording, Leonid Kogan as well—there’s a sparkling clarity in certain sections that is so masterful. The molto sostenuto is very tricky to manage because it oscillates between crisp effervescence and sweet gliding. I can only think of the ball scene in “The Russian Ark” … you have to be more than one character at the same time. It’s a lot to keep track of, but that whole section reminds me of a fugue in a way, except instead of having the parts written on top of each other, Tchaikovsky intersperses the subject with the countersubject material inside the single line and the bow has to sort through it to make it intelligible.

I will try to start making some little recordings as I work I think. Maybe I can make a new out-of-the-way account on Instagram. It’s much easier to fly under the radar there these days with the glut of violin videos on social media. One must work harder to be seen, which means it’s also easier to go unnoticed. Having a reason to make recordings was one of the best aspects of my involvement on Instagram—I knew recording myself would help me become a better player.

There is a drawback … in the hyper focus of listening to yourself, do you really hear yourself? In my last coaching session, I brought up the Marcovici recording and while it wasn’t her favorite, she agreed Marcovici is a great player. What I said was, I felt Marcovici made that section very clear and easy to understand, but that I will never really sound like that because I never feel like my personal sound quality is sophisticated enough. Marcovici’s sound, to me, is patrician and elegant. In my playing I hear a little girl, a bit awkward with sunshine and lilacs—sometimes searing, but usually very soprano. She disagreed with my assessment.

I guess one should not travel down that rabbit hole too far. Better to swing in the trees with the monkeys and hope for a soft landing.

I don’t know what else to do. I just make it look like I know what I’m doing, but I don’t. I’m scrambling to find the next bough to swing to like any other monkey—hoping I’ll land gracefully. It’s all an empty page, and that is just starting to sink in.

I am moving. God gave me a good shake up. It was bigger and louder than going deaf. I heard my note, it called to me and I’m in the trees.

Punitive Poetry and Big Words

Shhhh … okay fine. I could not quit. Even though I have pain in my right index finger joint (probably mostly from my one-finger phone typing skills writing on this blog), am still having issues with my left index finger nerve and have to work around husbands, I push on through the Tchaikovsky working through the recap section.

Unfortunately, the injury means I can only ask my body for a couple of hours in twenty minute segments for now … I do remember coming back after ten years and having pretty severe neuropathy. (I was young and in marathon running shape—even young people deal with this. I do not think this is related to age) People get injured and give up, but I decided not to do that. I could only manage five minutes at a time at first … I could not do more. Over several months, with consistency, my stamina returned. I don’t see any logical reason that will not be the case this time as well, as long as I am patient. I don’t even have neuropathy this time … just a pesky nerve (the nerve of that nerve!! 🙄🙄🙄 such a terrible joke. I should punish myself for that. Hmmm … adequate punishment? What would the natural consequence of inflicting bad puns be? Massaging my readers’ heads for the headache-inducing offense? Impractical. Force myself to watch four or five Pink Panther movies? Too enjoyable … Write several punishment poems? I did promise no poetry, but possibly punishment poetry may be within the flexible lines of my self-imposed rules. Punitive poetry it is. Coming up later in this entry).

At the dentist this morning, they took my vitals, which were 109/74 with a pulse of 55 bpm. Therefore, I am alive. Alive is a good place to begin. After the dentist, I went to the gym and ran on the treadmill and then worked on the rowing machine. I am not a fan of weights—the rowing machine is as close as I really get to upper body workouts. I’m sure this comes as a great shock to those who have viewed my photos and thought to themselves “well, I’m missing those rippling arm muscles, but the protruding collarbones might be enough to win in a fight with an octopus.” I was breathing the whole time! Such a good sign. I hate it when I stop breathing—usually in connection with cats. They have to take me to the hospital and feed me green jello and other culinary oddities (I can’t complain—when you are the primary maker of food in the home, other people’s cooking looks amazing … hmmm … maybe more interactions with cats is not such a terrible idea).

Then, I looked at my Timani exercises. Brief and totally inept description of Timani: heh hemmm … yeah. I don’t know how to be brief about what it is, and I also barely know what it is. It is not Alexander technique, but it has a similar goal—it comes at the problem from a very different lens. I thought while I am healing, I ought to learn how not to do it again and to become a more efficient player with the unique set of tools my body gives me. Did you know not everyone has the same muscles? Some people have extra. Some people have less. Everyone’s physiology is totally different. Also, there is this weird word “proprioception” I can now pronounce and try to casually slip into conversations with the elite members of my family so they can roll their eyes in exasperation that once again Mom is cleverly (or not so) seeking to disguise attempts at enlarging the family vocabulary by slipping new words into conversation. Unfortunately, that really relies upon my understanding the word well enough not to invoke the “Abnegation Tragedy of 2020” when we went around telling each other to stop abnegating the bathroom privileges of others in the household (which, in case you’re interested, meant we were essentially telling each other not to deny ourselves other people’s bathroom privileges—that would explain the shocking unannounced visits? and also possibly be a loophole in the English language of double negatives equaling the opposite? It was all very confusing until we learned the word “arrogate”).

Back to “Proprioception”—as I understand it, it means an awareness of one’s body, its movement and relationship to space. Our ankles and feet are an important part of playing an instrument because they connect us to space through the floor and send signals to the rest of the body which help us to balance and move in space without falling into a clump. They communicate messages to the other muscles in our body. So far, Timani is teaching me new exercises to tell my body to use other muscle sets for keeping my violin upright than the shoulder—muscles next to my ribcage.

While working at Timani and learning big words, I also had another coaching session during which I was asked to mark every shift and tell her whether it was a jump, a shift or an extension. It made me feel like I was five years old (even though I didn’t start learning until I was eight … I still felt like I was five). All my word flexing suddenly had no place and I went right back to the musical equivalent of monosyllabic speech, marking out shifts and extensions.

My pride is awesome … I love the way it convinces me I can just go auto-pilot when I’m sight reading new material. I did think about running out into the back yard, digging a snow cave and hiding out until the end of the session, but then I remembered I have four children and shouldn’t behave like one … or, maybe that’s backwards. What’s wrong with going backwards, rewinding the clock, and remembering how to shift, extend and jump on a violin? Fundamentals are the base. Who can be so important they are bigger than the base?

Not me. A long sigh and I made quick work of two pages, marking every transition, because it does, in fact, make things so much more clear. I don’t feel too badly about it now that I realize so many people are spending so much money to turn back the clock when, in fact, the fountain of youth is right in front of us all the time—let go of your pride, admit your silliness and embrace it!

And, I will do that right now in the form of punitive poetry, nursery rhyme style:

Little Miss Kim Dray

Writing an essay

Eating her words of the day 

Along came a teacher

Who struggled to reach her 

With big collarbones in the way

You should never be so big you can’t be small!

Overtone

As cadence still that leaves no noise,

     An echo lingering in the air

From opus heights, harmonic joys

    Descending to a quiet prayer--

So let us hush and reconcile

    The beating of the burning day,

The tempo's torrent, and exile

    False thoughts of resonant decay--

But hear what hearts inside intone,

    A deeper tune enduring on,

Awake to whispers from the bone--

    The maestro's steady sure baton.

Some shallow rasps of fickle sense

    Will not abide a gentle rest,

 But clamor for a loud defense, 

    In homophonic form protest.

While ours beneath two carven twins

    Awaits the gentle brush of hair

To fill those ends where it begins

    In polyphonic ringing air.

The music that our souls possess

    Does not reside in simple strokes,

But lives within clear resonance,

    In source, before the sound evokes.

If music be, then we remain

    As notes ascend in echo's ring--

Produced by one but felt in twain

    When one is bowed, the other sings.

And though but one, sound amplified

    Resounding through a bonded tone,

Our note, once sung, is magnified

    And carried as an overtone.

So you will be, as we're apart--

    The note above my hiding place,

Your source the same in kindred heart

    It wakes my soul and fills my space.

Kimberlee

My take on “Valediction: Forbidding Mourning” by John Donne with all credit to the masterful template I borrowed.

I know empaths experience this on the regular, but it is at once exhilarating and unnerving to empathize so perfectly, you experience the feelings of someone else. No words needed. Maybe it's a special gift given to musicians sometimes when their hearts are particularly in tune to offer the world a giant "I love you!" like the ninth (Beethoven--but that probably goes without saying).

on point

women who sew quilts don’t miss details
       even when the stitches blur into swirls 

                   on batik neighboring prairie ditzy
             the binding edge retreating and misty
          on the frame as a tent for little girls
who run in dreams across a quilted veil

the smallest stitch holds the pull of bias
          and memories of an imagined place
                    a pavilion beneath mama’s knees
             her nimble fingers thimbling the betweens
           forming a bobbing loft keeping apace
with little fingertips reaching their highest

each piece speaks a legacy of life
       rich with vibrant colors of falling leaves
              whose brightest hues take their fiery flight
               a breath away from the blackened night
        patchwork alive with its flying geese
triangle patterns in perfect design

women whose fingers make warmth when they sew
             who prick their fingers and bend on their knees
                   who strain to join pieces that buckle and give
                      memoirs in stitches to the life they live
         who need a pavilion with hiding place keys
need not ask where or why because they know


Kimberlee

Spenserian Stanzas for the Muttering Men at Overpriced Stores

This is the first moment of the day (it is 9:25 pm) I’ve had time to pick up my phone. It’s been nonstop fondue parties, wedding receptions and rehearsals for Christmas Eve concerts today. With my family waiting for me to watch a movie with them, it’s impossible for me to have a sliver of time to work on even just one stanza of poetry, but I will anyway:

The shelves of salmon, pork and pesto pies

Of chutney, hummus, fig-stuffed-brie and cheese

Entice the hungered bellies with big eyes

From work worn days that brought them to their knees

With promises of grapes and treats to please—

But don a price once swallowed, won’t go down:

They mutter “what’s this five pound price for these?”

“Two dollars more than other stores in town?”

Their principles betrayed, they head home with a frown.

The world is upside down!!!

And also … this was another start I gave up on:

‘Tis said a Scotsman wears his pockets deep,

But searching for a coin he cannot reach,

Finds his arms too short, with coins to keep—

And asked to spend quickly loses his speech. 

It is now 10:25 pm and I need to wrap this up. I wish it could be more than an hour of my day so I could properly address (and write a better stanza) this dismal state of the world for those with long memories of the cost of items at the store, but I hope this effort will suffice in letting the downtrodden know I stand in solidarity with all thus afflicted. You are not alone in your struggle!

Miracle Cures

I wake with a gigantic headache and Fritz snuggled up to me on the bed. Fritz has two uses in life: one, as a moving decorative carpet and two, as a warm personal cuddle buddy. He has a sixth sense about who is most needing of his cuddle services. He will regard everyone in the room, sniff out the right place (who knows what dogs are doing when they have to sniff and twirl around five or six times before finding exactly the right spot to relieve themselves) twirl around and sniff a few more times before planting himself in full cuddle mode. 

Yesterday I came up against a small wall. Since coming back to the violin, one of the difficulties has been slowly working back to my full stamina. You cannot push that too hard or too quickly or you will get injured … which, I have. Dare I say the word early stage carpal tunnel 😳 Maybe? I think … it’s not come to a point where I could not play, but every so often, I get a pain like an electric shock in my first finger, and I know it’s time to stop for a bit. 

To work through this challenge, I practice in smaller bursts with longer breaks in between, but eventually you need to do something more about it. I have definitely made my way around the healing world … this is not new terrain.

Fortunately, I have talented family members—some doctors and my brother, a chiropractor. He uses a technique called AMT (advanced muscle technique) which took care of a tennis elbow issue on. the. spot. for good … I have not struggled since. It’s magic. He also has a machine called “Softwave” that helps with everything else. Unfortunately my brother is a 15 hour drive away, so I’ve located someone three hours away who also has a Softwave machine. What’s so special about it?

What used to be a death sentence for many musicians and addressed only through surgery (carpal tunnel) is now easily treated in about 6 sessions (one per week) with a Softwave machine (this is fully researched, hard evidence, proven, cutting edge technology—in Washington, you need a prescription). Ironically, it heals with sound waves.

The story of my life … of course it’s music. What else would it be?

More specifically, it operates a bit like a lithotripsy in that it uses sound waves to break apart scar tissue and mimic an injury which activates stem cells to repair and heal—it stimulates the body to heal itself. I hope I didn’t just massacre that description … not my area of expertise. Look it up and learn all about it if you like!

What I know is, it’s *very* expensive (I had to pay for six treatments upfront … my brother says it’s because the machine itself is in the six figure range—he has to charge enough to pay for it) and it HURTS. This is not a fun experience. You won’t need anesthesia, but it is quite painful to be worked on with “the machine.” You don’t wonder whether or not there’s a shockwave being sent through your body. You KNOW it. 

It is *hands down* the very best option for dealing with a multitude of injuries, in my humble opinion, and a revelation for anyone in an athletic field (which, musicians are). The medical world hasn’t quite caught up yet (money … they wait for insurance companies), even though they know it too. Other doctors in my family concur.

I have six treatments in front of me which will be crucial if I want to be at full capacity for years to come—which, I do. In the meantime, I will be doing all the other things I know to do to prepare for more practice and performance, keeping myself in the best possible shape.

While I’m on the subject … I have a son who majors in human biology (pre-med) and he works in a laboratory on campus with a professor. He published a paper recently and was able to present it at a conference 😊 … as he explains it (again, I hope I do not completely mar the description), they are working on drugs that will keep muscle atrophy at bay. In essence, the effects of aging on muscles will be mitigated. Pretty amazing stuff … sadly, they are many, many years away, but it is on the horizon. This research also deals with cancer treatment (even more years away). They are seeking to develop treatments which would keep current therapies from harming the good cells, only targeting the bad. What I know is, my son gets to work with rats all day and apologizes for breaking the sabbath to go to work, because … these are very specialized star rats who require excellent care! lol … I mean 😂 Get used to it son! The medical world has a different set of standards for the sabbath …

There’s the current health report from the United States, in any case. What is happening in other countries I can’t be sure, partly because I let my passport slack and have to wait a month or two to get a new one. I mean, let’s face it. I have been out of the country (except to border towns on the Arizona border) just once in my life over ten years ago … though, a passport really ought to be something everybody has whether they are using it or not. 🫣

Today I am preparing for a small performance for church of a little arrangement of “The First Noël”—I always use the Jenny Oaks Baker arrangements, mainly because they’re already written, but someday I hope I have time to write a few of my own. This is one I’ve never played before, but it should be fine. I also need to work on the lyrical passages of Tchaikovsky … and this is what happens on the day to day as I make other, bigger things happen.

Healing takes time! There are miracle cures! I put my trust in the goodness of God and His purposes for my life—He is the source of the best, most lasting cures.

Atmospheric River Baptism

They say Washington is under an atmospheric river at the moment, but you would not need the official designation to guess; with torrents of water streaming, bringing the river to roaring heights and keeping the ski resorts closed due to the steady downpour. I try to keep it out of my emotional world, but I can’t help it. Nature and I are attuned to one another. 

When I was very young and thought (as most very young people do) I was in charge of more of the world than I am, I dreamed my emotions were in charge of the weather. I thought if I could make myself happy enough, the sun would come out, and if I was very sad it might rain.

Now I think it’s more a matter of me becoming aware of the many atmospheric rivers surrounding me all the time. Everyone is hurting. It helps to remember that sometimes. The rain will come and bring its moisture to parched soil. With each drop, the heavens wash the land in a ritual bath as if to say “you are clean again, you are new” and I feel the calmness, the assurance of renewed soil—crisp greenery beckoning me to join in the process of beginning again.

It is the Christmas season, I was asked at the last minute to throw together a piece to play in church and so my words today will need to be few, but today as I look at the pouring rain from our atmospheric river, the opening bars of the Moldau (after the flutes and woodwinds, when the violas and cellos signal the building current with the violins joining later) are fresh in my mind. I remember sitting in orchestra letting the music wash over and make me clean. 

I suppose music has its ways of baptizing, which I sorely need. I have been truly, deeply humbled. One should not handle sacred things with frivolity or glib humor. I have been far too casual with the calling and privilege of participating in an art capable of reminding humanity we are not creatures of flesh alone—we are souls.

Humbled, washed, cleaned … start again.

What You Want Meets the Void

For those of you paying attention, my apologies. I published this earlier, but felt my thoughts were incomplete and wanted to offer a bit more. My second attempt:

Every faith, including science (which, to me, is every bit a modern construct of worship) rests on what it means to walk in darkness. The not knowing of things. The things out of our control. Composing is like that—it’s tapping into the subconscious, the void, and note by note, bringing them into existence.

Personally, I envision the powers which were involved in the creation of the Universe less like a controlling manipulative hand with a magic wand or fairy dust, and more like a composer whose whole-hearted trust and faith in dark zones could bring the elements into alignment to manifest the Universe. The Universe is a poem. It’s music …

I’ve had experience enough to know the pitfalls of creation—sitting in an airport for any length of time will underscore the difficulties of grasping the divine from the void. More often than not, what comes trailing in through the bathroom speakers is more void and less creation? 😂🤷🏼‍♀️ I do this in my life too … I don’t want to do that anymore. I’ve eaten the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil … we get a chance to sample the fruits of our actions so we learn to be better creators I think.

I know what I create through my own will, with my own ego and desires full throttle (Marcus Aurelius writes about this too …) brings me to the base of Mt. Rainier in tears. I want what flows from me to be life giving, abundant and free. There are many deceptions on the road towards that manifestation.

You can never have enough of what you don’t need, because what you don’t need will never satisfy you. To me, that’s the embodiment of the deception—the empty way of living. It’s running after things that look enticing but promise no fulfillment, only more craving. Empty. Desolate. Disconnected. Alienated. Obese and starving.

In my mind, I think of that performance in the church in the woods, the palpable feeling of humanity, of unity, of oneness—it was … more. Of everything. I am so grateful I didn’t miss that performance because I was so set on running after the performances that would impress everyone else. 

Everyone talks about manifesting the things you want, but no one is talking about a vastly more important skill: knowing what to want. Learning to want the right things is one of the deepest journeys of my life, and it leads me to very broken, very contrite places.

Holiness. Truth. Compassion.

There are beautiful thoughts about the nebulous zones in every major thought leader I can draw to mind at the moment … I treasure them and lean on them during my own dark nights of the soul:

“Faith is an oasis in the heart which will never be reached by the caravan of thinking.” Khalil Gibran

“Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother.” Khalil Gibran

“Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.” Khalil Gibran

“Do you have the patience to wait until your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving till the right action arises by itself?” Lao Tzu

“Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark. In effect, the people who change our lives the most begin to sing to us while we are still in darkness. If we listen to their song, we will see the dawning of a new part of ourselves.” Rabindranath Tagore

… and especially these verses:

 “saying unto them that by faith all things are fulfilled—Wherefore, whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world … which hope cometh of faith and maketh an anchor to the souls of men, which would make them sure and steadfast, always abounding in good works, being led to glorify God … And now, I, Moroni, would speak somewhat concerning these things; I would show unto the world that faith is things which are hoped for and not seen; wherefore, dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.” Ether 12:3-6

“You receive no witness until after the trial of your faith” is what I cling to, when I compose and as I live. I know what I know. I am who I am, and yet … walking humbly means I know there is a great, vast void always working to manifest new things in me, always teaching and giving me opportunities to taste the fruits and learn how to use my precious choices to create something in harmony with the Universe—to me, it is almost scientific.

If you find yourself lost in a church sometime, stick around. Lost is how it’s supposed to feel.

I don’t feel threatened by the resistance others have towards my faith, especially because what I truly know about myself and things around me has nothing to do with my thoughts, but with feelings. I have no doubt in that whatsoever and I trust. I pray my way through it. I am being led through it. I won’t resist when there’s a flaming sword blocking the path. I know where the greatest blessings are, and I won’t destroy them because I was too impatient or too afraid of the void to let God work. That would not be a work of love, it would be a work of addiction and ultimately lead to destruction. You can’t have anything right when what you want is wrong.

I’m not interested in the bridges. I’m interested in the landscape.

I hope mine will look like strength and courage to choose what would ultimately let my life be one of great love towards all whom my life touches.

“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.” Lao Tzu

Have no fear, but find faith, nothing doubting.

Winged Christmas

 

This is a piece of fan art created with one of my photos. I was not too thrilled with the shoot, but this sweet person’s view of me changed my perspective. He did other artwork for me during the years I was on Instagram, but I’ve lost contact, so I cannot give him a proper thanks for this gesture.

This memory inspires my Christmas decorating for the year, which is bird/wing oriented. Sadly, I will not be able to devote the time and detail of previous years as I will be practicing ...

The level of detail in my Christmas decor of past years has included hanging hundreds of snowflakes from my ceiling—I hesitate to admit the number of hours, accompanied in the background by every Hallmark Christmas movie ever made, I spent hanging each one of those snowflakes from my ceiling and creating the cabinet fronts from left over Amazon boxes and a white paint pen. Such an effort will never be repeated. I now know exactly when the missed kiss opportunity and misunderstanding at the end will happen based on the timing in the movie and/or cues in the score. I can no longer come within 527 yards of a Hallmark movie (the exact distance at which I can no longer hear the obligatory coffee date in which a friend from the country accidentally spills the worst possible detail starting a chain reaction ending in the demise of Aunt Mabel’s prize winning bakery) as a result.

I remind myself as I’m practicing to apply the same care and attention to these measures as I do to the birch fronts I glue with liquid nails to the flatware I’m using for the Stick Christmas theme. I’m slightly sad not to throw myself all the way in on the decorating this year. Instead, I will comfort myself by mentioning the things I *would* do if I weren’t practicing here in this blog:

1. Recycle my sheet music as feathers—cut it apart and apply wire to twist sheet music into feather-like stems to put throughout the tree and on the mantle. 

2. Fill several other bird cages with hand crafted birds.

3. Cover my resin Cardinals in actual feathers and add black jewel eyes.

4. Sew bird pillows with feather trim.

5. Buy 200 more feathers and hang them from the ceiling.

6. Buy even more feathers and create a set of wings for the top of my tree and one larger set to go next to the fireplace.

7. Cover the base of my flatware in bird seed and shellac them.

8. Use paint to embellish glass stemware with bird paintings.

9. Sew napkins and matching table runner from bird printed silk fabric.

10. Hang bird ornaments and feathers from the chandeliers.

Within each of these lists are smaller sublists until I wear myself out thinking of ways to make my house fly (other than tornadoes and big balloons). 

Tomorrow, whatever I am not accomplishing on this list will be applied to my music … synchronizing right and left hand, preparing my left hand, organizing my right hand—Ackh! The molto sostenuto which does not want to allow me to think of any less than 7 or 23 details at once … I don’t as yet know how to bring out the melody without slamming the chords with too much emphasis and still give it shape. Then the poco piu lento—fantastic for instigating repetitive motion disorder or total hand paralysis, except what’s really important is that you relax. 

This, I will do, or accept paralysis and think of my new left hand as a bird claw, which will … in the end, fit my theme. Either way, I win. 

Here is Fritz, photobombing while I show you the tame version of the Christmas decor (which he is totally qualified to demonstrate, come to think of it, being a completely benign pet other than the occasional freak-out moments caused by rogue unexplained spots on the window).

What’s important to notice is, not that I tried to turn garland into a strangely shaped wreath and stuck feathers in it to compensate, but that Fritz is unphased by the weird new wreath whereas a strangely placed Amazon box would keep him up all night. I hear Cocker Spaniels are bird dogs, actually, so maybe he’s just in his element.

I’m definitely in mine. Wings it is …

Tchaikovsky

 

I have a fatal flaw—I do not understand.

I try to read the world and I’m coming up empty handed.

I have decided, at length, I am totally in my own world—not a surprise to anyone who knows me well. We’re talking about the woman who owns fifty tiaras for no reason (even I think it’s a stupid collection 😂 but my daughter’s friends love to try them on!), curtsies to people on the subway when she feels inclined and thinks if you are going to stay in for the weekend, you should clean the rooms, change the linens, put numbers on the doors and tiny luxury soaps in the bathrooms to make your own luxury getaway. Also chamomile tea and cakes because … yes. 

Which brings me to the dresses … this year has been so transformative, I’m afraid this part of me may have died. I am about to give way to black attire even though I have an incredible Monet looking concert dress for a French program. I don’t know. The world used to dress for concerts. Concerts used to be special—magical. Maybe I belong to another age … I can’t fit myself into the box the world wants for me. In any direction.

It always struck me as a bit odd—the non-conformist groups, very resolute in their stances, and yet at ease because their digressions always have a precedent and a group, so they’re never truly alone. In High School, under my breath, I called them the conforming non-conformists. Actually, I don’t think it’s a bad thing at all and hints at a core reality—we don’t want to be alone, do we? We need each other. We want to find common ground. We want understanding. We want to see the world in others and let it teach us new things about ourselves.

It’s just not working for me at the moment.

I sewed these concert dresses myself because, I get a vision and can’t find it to buy. No one makes the dresses of my dreams. I have to create them myself. The top one was inspired by Tsarist Russia and the second is my conception of Tchaikovsky in textiles. I should probably take another shot at it now that I’m actually playing the Tchaikovsky concerto—

I first began working on this concerto simply as another stop on the road to violin mastery. I have some hang-ups where that’s concerned—some very sad experiences with teachers who felt, for reasons I cannot sign off on, the way to thrust violin down my throat was to put me on the checklist system, deride and degrade me for not having mastered every Dont exercise and for having worked on Tor Aulin before Mozart. These many years later, I have my own perspective, but suffice it to say, in humiliation and shame for having not checked all boxes, I have worked through almost every etude book in the canon except Dounis and Wieniawski (of which I’ve only done a couple) and I feel like I need to rewrite the master tape in my brain telling me things I *should* play; although, it did lead me to Tchaikovsky which, I’m finding, is strangely exactly what a person who doesn’t understand her place in the world should be working on.

Wouldn’t it be nice if violin teachers were more like therapists and could prescribe a course of study based on the emotional well-being of the student? In my future life, I hope to become one—a healer?

Until then, my coach is recommending surgery to the first half of the first movement—a clinical approach. In the midst of that soul-searching work, I had to know about this composer. 

Ugh. I did not want to do that. I really did not. Tchaikovsky had a way opposite world view to mine. He wrote this work in the midst of a life crisis when he was coming to know himself. I don’t know that it worked out well for him in the end, but it did bring about this beautiful piece of music facing me, asking this of me.

The tragedy in all of it was, the world was never going to bend to Tchaikovsky and Tchaikovsky was never going to bend back to the world and he broke … that, I understand all too well. This flailing around, trying to grasp the changes you can make while holding on to the solid ground of the things you cannot—it’s a lonely path. Somewhere in these notes though, is his magic—a world he created for himself, like the dresses I sew for myself. He was not going to settle for a lesser vision—he knew himself. In a completely different context, I am beginning to see and know my worth too.

I may not understand the world and it may not go so easily for me in the end, but I have promised some beautiful music, and I think I may have enough magic left for that.

It's not easy in the work zone. We're all doing the best we can. No one is having a party. It's good to remember that. If you feel like giving someone the benefit of the doubt, it's not unwarranted. Most people are suffering. Most of us have a lot more going on inside than we can say.