We are now in the heart of summer: after the solstice but before the dog days. While on vacation at the
lake we had cooler than normal temperatures but now that we are home, away from the water, here
comes the heat. I make feeble attempts at meal planning but we end up throwing sandwiches and cans
of cold drinks into the bottom of a canvas tote and sitting balanced on warm, flat rocks at the river, our
feet buried beneath pebbles and silt to keep cool. We alternate between chewing and throwing tennis
balls for the dogs.
Our peas, a cold-weather crop, have all been gathered. Paul and I stand in the late afternoon light of the
kitchen and zip open the tiny green sleeping bags to reveal the perfectly round embryonic peas. We
shuck a few and toss them into a deep silver bowl on the counter, enjoying the satisfying ‘ping’ of them
filling the bowl. Then we stand and eat as many.
Paul’s hands are stained pink from picking raspberries. He rushes to the garden each day, arms full of
old, used quart baskets. Every available afternoon he fills as many as daylight will allow leaving only
tight buds left on the bushes. The next day reveals a brilliant new explosion. This will continue until it
doesn’t. We tuck them into our second freezer in the bowels of the basement, ducking around the
cobwebs dangling from the cool ceiling. They will be the stuff of pies, jams and daily smoothies until
the next garden is harvested.
The resting is over. I get an email from a colleague and friend who is getting married in August. We are
to attend the wedding but he asks if I will play with him on a piece that he has written for his beloved.
Honored, I accept and print off the music. When I look at what he has written it is, technically, not a
piece will give me difficulty and yet I realize that a real challenge lies in my ‘hearing’ what he is saying
and being able to express someone ease’s feelings with my cello..
This is, in my opinion, the true essence of playing; being able to reach down and touch the bottom of
the well.
It has always been a gift and a curse for me to have easy access to my emotions. I am often told that I
am too sensitive. The downside of this sensitivity is that whatever people are saying to me, I am able to
understand what they really mean; the upside is the ability to take a piece of music and get to its heart.
Music is the language, the solution that was waiting for me, offering a connection from my hands to my
soul.
In teaching, from the very start I am working on helping the player with not only technique, but the
ability to listen.
Today especially, it feels important to sift through the sound-bites and jibber-jabber of a language
polluted with idioms, veiled references, and often anger: and truly determine what it is we really want
to say. Regardless of whether we are using our musical or verbal instruments. And then have the
courage to say it.