Rainbow Boy

I am so grateful that Rock & Sling provided me the space to share some of my thoughts about faith, identity, and family in October. Rainbow Boy has been up on their blog for a couple of weeks, and it is completely by accident that I haven't shared the link here. It took a long time to put into words, and it is still a highly imperfect thing, but I hope it will speak to others.

Signs of Life + Signs I That I Lagged a Little Too Far Behind on the Trail

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"Imprint" at Rock and Sling

It is an honor to have my piece, "Imprint," up on the Rock and Sling blog this week. It pulls together some things I have been mulling over for months (sparked by the baby mouse and its siblings pictured below) and I am so pleased to be able to finally have it out in the world. You can read it here.

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Pasta with Squid Ink Sauce

Hours after moving our son into his dorm room at an arts boarding school a year and half ago, my husband and I sat down to one of the most delicious and memorable meals of my life. I was heartbroken and terrified--our boy was young and it felt way too early to have him away, despite the fact that he had initiated it and that after much soul-searching we were all convinced it was the right move for him. The dinner fixed nothing, but the sheer warm magnificence of it was something of a balm, the way light glitters off broken glass and reminds you that despite the shattering there is still beauty to witness. We ate wonderful things, including a pasta in squid ink sauce, which, despite a warning from our waitress, I ate without tucking a napkin into my shirt. I admit it, I fully believed I had learned to eat without dribbling. And I not only dribbled, I dropped a big piece of pasta right down the front of my shirt, and the black stain is never going to go away. I could not throw the shirt away, and I could not look at it for a long time, either, so I tucked it deep in my closet with all the other things I do not know how to deal with. Something in me remembers at times like this that I am a slow-simmerer. Finally the thought struck me that I could cover the stain even though I could not remove it, and I found tucked nearby one of the lovely vintage handkerchiefs I brought home from my grandmother's house after she died. And I sewed the two heartbreaks together, and it took a very long time, longer than I thought it should have, but look I have made a new beautiful thing and someday I will wear the people I love who I can no longer have close by. 

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Update: May/June

I am honored to have had two pieces published recently: an article in the American Suzuki Journal, and a poem in Rock & Sling (Issue 12.1.) 

It was a special treat to see my article in the ASJ featured on the mailing label that came with the journal--I am rather proud of that. The article, "Walk the Hills, Crawl if Necessary" was something I worked on for months this past year. The basic point was that as parents we run into times when we have to loosen our grip on our expectations, that sometimes what looks like stagnation is still a moving-forward, just maybe hidden, or very slow. It ended up being very, very close to home, and depending on the day (week/month) it was sometimes nearly impossible to write about.

The poem in Rock & Sling was also difficult to write. "The Beatitudes" by Vladimir Martynov, Rescored for Kronos Quartet was a piece I nearly gave up on. It began as an assignment at a poetry workshop I attended in 2015, the last assignment at the end of an incredibly full, intense week. I hated what I had written so much I decided not to turn it in. In the end I could not leave it alone, either, but it took many months to shift into its current form.

Today's theme? Never give up. Time is kind of a magical thing, and I keep forgetting to factor it in. 

I have been working on several projects while away from this blog. Day-to-day what I see around me is Mess, but over the course of time I can see that I am making progress. In time I hope to share about those here. In the meantime you can find me a little more frequently on Instagram.

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"That Hard Passage," ASJ

Last fall my friend Sarah asked me to share what I had carried with me into adulthood from my childhood Suzuki training. There are many things--part of what I love about teaching is that it keeps showing me more about not only my own musical training, but my whole upbringing, deeply informed as it was by Shinichi Suzuki's teachings and philosophies. But this answer, what I am starting to think of as the discipline of beauty, is the one closest to my heart. I think it transcends the Suzuki philosophy, actually, to all of music and art, but this is where I encountered it in my own life. I am thankful to the American Suzuki Journal for giving me the chance to share my essay, "That Hard Passage," with a larger audience, both in their most recent volume (44.3) and here on their website.

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I Will Keep At This

I have been quiet for a long time. Partly because my children are getting older and I want to respect their privacy. Partly because I do not feel comfortable writing what is on my mind about my students—again for their privacy, as well as for my own. Partly because I haven’t figured out an honest and real way to communicate the things pressing on my heart and mind the most. And partly because to some extent I have been avoiding writing about those most pressing things, because the thought of doing it is exhausting and terrifying.

Wednesday night, though, I shared some of my feelings on Facebook following the shooting in Orlando. I have been silent too long. I am re-sharing them here, but not before I tell you how beautiful the responses from many of my friends were. It was overwhelming. We have wonderful people in our lives, and if I had stayed silent I would not have realized how many. My children would not know, either.

The fact is, every time I have chosen to speak up about something important, yes—there were people who stepped away, and yes—it hurt, but yes—there were many who stepped closer. Each time I spoke up I found out I was not alone. And each time I spoke up others found out they were not alone. I will keep at this.

I rarely feel ready to speak about something before the rest of the world is on to a new topic, especially because I am not always convinced adding my voice to the noise will make a difference. This time, though, I have to speak up. It has been brewing for months.

I have prayed, I have signed petitions, I have given money. I have read and read and read to try to understand this from different sides. I will keep doing those things, but I also want my friends to know that as the mother of a gay teen it breaks my heart that he is a particular target for violence. That some people may never be able to see what a gorgeous human being he is simply because he is not straight. That practically every day at school he has heard his peers using words that described aspects of who he is as synonyms for stupid, or perverted, or worse. That he has friends who are terrified to come out because of how their families and communities might respond. That he and his sisters woke up Sunday morning not just to the renewed knowledge that this world is full of violence and hate and horrible loss but also to the knowledge that there are people out there who would kill him if they could, without knowing anything else about him.

I have not yet gotten over the fear of judgment from my friends, especially my fellow Christians. But I love my children more than I fear what anyone else thinks, and to me it is a matter of faith to stand beside my son and support him fully. I pray that enough others are heartbroken by what happened in Orlando—that enough people will allow their hearts to be broken—that they will start listening differently. The most important question I ever asked myself, years before my son came out but still not soon enough, was “What if that were my kid?” I believe it is a question that saves lives.

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(This is not about violin--

but most of what we are doing during lessons and classes is not actually about violin.)

Recently one of my 3rd graders caught a glimpse of the top of my head while I was tuning her violin.

"Your hair is turning white!"

"Yes, it is! That's okay. I actually kind of like it."

She nodded. 

"I guess I'm getting older and changing, just like you are." It was really only as I said these words that I realized how true they were. Had I known this, before it came up? 

I cannot tell you how often something like this happens. It seems like it would be enough, just learning a skill like how to play an instrument. But there is always so much more going on. The focus is violin. We work pretty hard on that. But what it is about lies always just below the surface of what we do every day, and sometimes rises above, glimmering. I love these moments more than words can say.

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Recently--Spring 2016

Music and dance and field trips and State Solo and Ensemble contest and recitals and concerts! And plans for the summer and plans for next year. It is hard to even think straight, this time of year, but somehow we always make it to summer. In between, especially as the kids get older, are conversations about music and art and justice and politics and kindness. Oldest shares what he is listening to. Middle, even if she is sleeping over at a friend's house and her phone is dead, will make sure I know the moon is rising outside, full and magical. Youngest shares her art and her passion and her compassion. Husband brings home mystery snails and we delight in them, some of us maybe wishing we could move through the world the way they do. And there are small treasures to find outside as the world warms and greens: seeds and sprouts, fireflies, the sound of frogs, the scent of lilacs and honeysuckle.

Found, 3/22/16

Spending the season of Lent looking for signs of the Divine in the world around me.

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Found, 2/15/16

The plan is to spend the season of Lent looking for signs of the Divine in the world around me, and to share what I find.

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Found, 2/12/16

The plan is to spend the season of Lent looking for signs of the Divine in the world around me, and to share what I find.

It is a special kind of finding, catching soft strains of Mozart coming from his room late at night. He first heard this music when he was four, on a story CD borrowed from the public library. We listened over and over, and I plan to never forget how long it always took for him to put his socks on in the morning, busy as he was singing "Der Holle Rache." For months now, he has gone to bed with this music playing softly in the background. I imagine how the notes work into head and heart, how rich it is to sleep with these phrases braiding through the body, vining along muscles, nerves, synapses. Bird man and prince, music and silence, the Temple of Ordeals. All of it finding its way in. Something new finding its way out.

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Light, 12/3/15:

Today's light: what these kids can do.

Thankful, 11/19/15:

(high school musical edition) 

For the moment before the curtain rises. For the continual awe of parenthood.

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Thankful, 11/16/15:

For reminders.

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This is For You

Not long ago, she offered me a drink she had made: bright green, unnatural, an offering of love and self.

If you know the story of Persephone, or if you know much about fairies, you are familiar with the dangers of eating the food offered to you by certain beings. It binds you to them, makes you a captive in their land. And childhood is certainly a foreign land to those of us who have been away. Adults develop a strange accent. I have found it good to live close to the borders, to make excursions in, to stay fluent in the old language. 

Spend time with them, and they will offer you things. Of course it’s risky, but love is. 

I drank the whole thing.

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Learning to Speak

1. Yes, I am convinced by now that God speaks—all day, all night—in a stream of beauty and oddities, in kindness, in the words of friends and strangers, and also in pain, in shake-up, in freak occurrence—anything that cracks the veneer we seem so fond of. There was a time I could not pray words, at all. Had nothing but some kind of silent reaching, and looking, and listening, hoped that what I had could be enough. If I could see one beautiful thing, or enter into a phrase of music that reached for heaven, or hear words from a friend or a book that touched the rawest, hurt places, I could take that personally. Maybe God was not silent. Maybe I could listen more carefully. Maybe I could learn better the language I was hearing the most. It is a delicate, difficult language—

2. We visited Oldest at music camp and after four weeks finally got to hear him talk and talk. It was the most comforting wonderful sound. I took pictures of him, even though he did not want me to—couldn't help it. Mostly I took them from the side or behind, but in one picture he is looking straight at me, part pained, part perplexed. Why, Mom? When we hugged him goodbye (two more weeks) and left I was not crushed—only because he told us things. At the parent meeting on the first day of camp, we were given advice: You are not doing anything interesting. There is nothing going on at home, you are not having an amazing vacation without your child. You do not need to encourage homesickness, and your sons and daughters need to focus fully on what they are doing here. I am trying to follow this advice, remembering that “We miss you” gets boring, anyway. I send texts and pictures: oddities, funny happenings, shared memories. Translation: I love you. I am here, always. Recently it dawned on me what language I am speaking.

3. It is a tricky one, this language. Delicate, difficult—language of giraffe’s eye, seed fluff, spark—language of lifted veils and torn curtains. Language of accumulation: snowflake-upon-snowflake, word-upon-word, phrase-upon-phrase. Tear-upon-tear and kindness-upon-kindness. The stars speak it fluently, also the very old, and the very young. And trees, their arms forever lifted. I am only learning, the syllables clumsy on my tongue but also round, smooth. Phrases catch in my head, circle softly, carve deep. I hear them in dreams, they fall at my feet. Listen, and listen. Finally venture a word here and there, cringing at my own accent: beads of honey, hints of salt. 

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Underneath

1. I texted Oldest at camp this evening about the storm that blew through before dinner:

Both Dad and I called out to the girls (from different parts of the house) to go to the basement at the exact same time. We lost a few branches and the roof lost some shingles, but otherwise everything was fine. The girls found this guy on our window afterwards—thought the storm blew him in, maybe.

Hidden deep within those words, or not so deep, were other words. Silent. Tucked into the memory of the other moths we have found as a family: luna, prometheus, sphinx:

I miss you. Your absence is exactly what it should be and I can handle it, but there is this constant ache.

2. Last week I visited the city that will always feel like home. Spent time with old friends and new, visited as many favorite places as I could. Showed Husband where you could get bakery samples big enough to double as dessert. Walked and talked and explored with a friend from high school and her young boy, noticed how much of the time he kept one hand touching her as he explored the world.

Underneath: companionship. Veins of it running deep, silent sometimes—even for decades—and yet they are there.

3. Found this the day before we left for home. I appreciate a gentle subversiveness. Underneath is a story: the impulse(s?) to leave one’s mark, to surprise, to change things.

I am doing my best to pay attention.

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Hello again—

Front door opens—

sweet scent of cut grass.

First time I noticed.

It is summer, officially, even if the calendar doesn’t agree, even if the weather itself doesn’t agree. The steely clouds and cold temperatures make me feel like I am at a camp in the north woods of my home state, and the air holds the same yearning for warmth. But that in itself is a sign to me of summer.

And it is truly summer.

Kids are out of school. I forced them to stop on the front porch for a picture on the last day, even though we were running a little late. They still stun me with their beauty, with the fact that we belong to each other, with the fact that they are growing and growing. I am convinced the picture itself was beautiful, but it did not turn out—I’ve maxed out the storage on my device of choice and when I went back to look at what I’d captured after getting everyone to school there was nothing there but black. I haunted Facebook that day, full of regret, but in the end there were my kids, older and wiser, even without the smiling visual proof of having made it through the year. 

That surprise lingers through the first days of summer vacation—that we made it. That the kids are older. I have tried noticing it day by day—that they are growing, that we are getting through each day in one piece—but it only ever comes as a surprise. This happens with my students, too. You go along steadily, both expecting and not-expecting change, and there—suddenly—it sneaks up on you: these children are taller. Their hair is longer.  They are figuring some things out. There are things about them I know better, now, and other things I don’t. I sense changes in myself, as well (when I remember, I am taller too, maybe.) Like that scent of fresh-cut grass you always but never noticed. I love these surprises and will keep looking for them, all summer long. And they will keep being surprises, no matter how hard I look.

Happy summer to you. I wish you many surprises, as well.

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These Moments

1. Last week: my students performed, 35 of them, 3 Bach minuets in 5 parts. It meant everything to make sure everyone had something significant to contribute to the whole, regardless of where they were in terms of age or development or ability. It worked. And we all got to be in the middle of that big full sound. I posted a video here, on the Violin Project page.

2. Over the weekend: Middle’s confirmation of faith at church. Immediate families stood with the confirmands at the front of the church during the ceremony, and extended families, friends, and supporters were asked to stand with them from their spots in the pews as the pastors prayed for each individual. I didn’t know it at first but the youth of the church stood the entire time, for each of the kids in front. When I turned around and saw them all standing together at the back—it cracked my heart open. The next day a friend told me that she, too, had been standing for Middle. Knowing your child has people—that is beautiful. Seeing that fact—that is exquisite.

3. We had an impromptu photo session Sunday afternoon, the kids all spiffed-up, in the front yard. Things have not changed. Posed family photos are as hard to get as ever, and I have a fabulous series of pictures along with dialogue no one will ever let me share publicly, plus one “acceptable” picture that will eventually make it onto Facebook.

4. Oldest, who has been wearing glasses since he was three, got contact lenses today. I’ve seen him without glasses plenty of times, but this was different. I was witness to him seeing his world differently—an echo of the day we walked up to our front door, him in his first pair of full-prescription glasses, stopping, bending over, taking in this world he hadn’t realized was around him.

5. Youngest, these days, always wants the radio off when we are in the car. “Let’s talk,” she says. She is a good foil for the introverts in the family, inclined as they are to hide by the end of a long day.

I told more than one person that I was afraid of this month, going in. But here we are on the last day of April, and everyone is still all in one piece, even with the Easter Sunday emergency room visit. It has all been good, rich stuff—performances of all kinds, all five of us, and so many other things—I’ve been trying to hold these moments that have risen up in the middle of it all inside of me, and time just keeps barreling forward. How does one do this life thing? How does one not do it?

Which brings me to next month. I’m going to take a break from the blog. There are projects waiting for me, asking for their proper time. A transition from school days to summer days, also asking for its due time. And honestly, some dreaming to do. I will see you in June.

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