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Counting. Grrrr.
I’m still having trouble counting. Not counting, exactly, but tapping and playing at the same time. It’s purely a coordination issue — I can point to the notes while verbally counting, so it’s not a problem of not understanding notation. On simple tunes I can even play while counting out loud. But physically tapping while doing all the other things playing violin requires is still beyond my abilities. A couple of people have said it’ll just happen one day. Seems always tomorrow, though.
Right now we’re working on Handel’s Largo from Xerxes. It’s been frustrating, but I’m down to only about five measures that are giving serious trouble. Though I knew violin is often the lead instrument, I didn’t really know it until now. Of all of us — guitar, two cellos, viola, violin — I’m the one with the fewest skills. However, in this particular piece, the other instruments play what are essentially continuos, with the violin carrying the melody. They’ve been very patient while I mangle triplets and the endless variations of 3/4 time.
Yet another lesson learned: When everyone else is doing continuo, if I lose track of the melody, I’m screwed. It’s almost impossible to figure out where everyone else is.
We’re also starting to work on Bach’s Air on the G String. It’s doable, but progress comes only a measure at a time.
There’s a chance we’ll be playing a church rededication in the spring. Hoping to find some simple sacred music. Haydn’s Baryton trios have been suggested — simple and suitable for a church service.
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A dream
The night before last I had a dream about my mother. She died in May, twelve years after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. My father had taken care of her all that time, determined to keep her from a nursing home. There’s a story there, but I’m not quite ready to tell it.
My father and I were with her at the end, and with the help of hospice were able to help ease her passing.
In the dream she had returned. We both knew she had passed away, but we were sitting at a table in a kitchen, making chocolate chip cookies, talking about nothing. She was in a dark blue suit, dressed as if for church, her now dark hair perfectly arranged. We sat and talked, pinching dough and laying it out on cookie sheets, talking about the children she had taken care of, now adults. She flashed the same crooked, restrained smile I’d grown up with, explaining that she thought it was “silly” that they sent her Mother’s Day cards, thanking her for doing what she’d done so many years ago. I said they were right, that she was their mom, too, and the fact that they believed it made it true.
In the dream this all felt perfectly normal — nothing strange about her coming back to make cookies, and it felt as if our random conversation picked up where it had left off years ago.
But in waking life it’s more complicated. Now it’s easier to remember the way she looked before she became ill, to remember her voice, her expressions and gestures. It feels like part of her really has returned, but I feel the loss even more.
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