Living in the moment

When I was in music school, one of my biggest challenges was inconsistency.  I could play exactly how I wanted in the practice room most of the time, in my teacher's studio some of the time, in studio class rarely, and in recital never.  My emotions would often determine not just my overall musical plan, but also my fingerings and bowings (this should have been easy to fix, had I been a little more mature).  Not only that, but I'd fit a lifetime of emotions into one movement.  It was enough to make everyone seasick.  


By the time I was finishing music school, I had far too many emotions to contain within just a movement, and all I could do instead was cry.  Not all the emotions were sorrow, but they were all too much for me to handle.


Seminary, and aging, slowed down many of those emotions, helped me find their roots (which ironically were mostly theological anyway), and gave me enough case studies and opportunities to talk about them when they are happening to other people.  


The rush to get to the end of the piece with as many emotions as possible is no longer a problem, I think.  I've been working on the Wieniawski Romance for a recital (that may not happen now), and it has allowed me to live in those long, held out moments with only one thing in mind.


A beloved family member of mine is facing a serious, undiagnosed illness, and another family member is facing ongoing health issues with question marks around them.  My husband is far away (another continent) and won't be with me for what seems like eternity now.  Yesterday, I was the pastor for a funeral and committal, the first such events where I've taken this role.  The woman who had died loved the violin very much, and the family asked that I play.  I played old hymns, some of my favorites ("How Great Thou Art," "In the Garden," "Amazing Grace"), and a Dvorak tune from the 9th Symphony ("Going Home").


In a place of complete dependence upon God for any amount of strength, I did not cry; I did not fit all of my emotions into these songs.  I just sat in the drawn-out phrases, in the place of waiting, in the place of hope in the resurrection.  No worries about consistency or timing.  It was beautiful.  It would have startled me if I had any proactive need to play well.  The whole event, funeral and committal, was beautiful.  


This is where my good music comes from- the quiet, drawn-out place of waiting for the resurrection.  

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,

   and in his word I hope; 

my soul waits for the Lord

   more than those who watch for the morning,

   more than those who watch for the morning. 

O Israel, hope in the Lord!

   For with the Lord there is steadfast love,

   and with him is great power to redeem. 

-Psalm 130:5-7