"You don't play the violin"

We were in my living room, practicing for the first time.  We had been asked to provide background music for the church book sale, the Friday night "members-only" event.  She had located the music, waltzes and reels bound into a spiral notebook format.  Some simplified Strauss and Lehar, some American fiddle classics I recognized from music nights at A's.   It was transcribed for cello and violin, both parts on the same page.  I had looked through about half of it:  easy stuff, I could sight-read it all, if not play up to tempo.  I made a copy for myself, sent her a few pieces of my own music, and we set up the first rehearsal.

The night did not start out well.  I've been in more of a funk than usual, fighting with D, making piles of clothes that no longer fit my fat body, planning the downsize and remodel, doing housework, lying on the couch knitting and watching Judge Judy, Leverage, and NCIS reruns.  Yesterday I did get out for an early morning walk and meditation (more about that another time.)  And I planted the bagged, bare-root natives I had picked up on Saturday, praying that the upcoming storm would water them back from the dead.  The day was not a total loss, but I was still in a funk.

So, I was unprepared for the rehearsal I myself had set up.  Looking through my e-mail, I came across hers:  "Where's your address, oh there it is, see you in a few hours."  Oy.  I sent a quick reply:  "Sounds good, give me a call when you get here and I'll come out to light your way."  The path lights have been burned out for months, just one brave little bulb to fight the darkness and show the way.  And, we have a guest in the front studio, which seems the obvious entry point.

Sure enough, she comes to the front door.  I'm set up, practicing in the living room, and I hear a knock at the communicating door to the studio.  Our guest calls to me that I have a visitor.  I heave aside the second communicating door (soon to be attached properly), and am just in time to see K's back as she disappears out the front gate.  Grabbing a flashlight, I scurry out front, calling her name.  She is nowhere to be seen.  I wait a bit, calling and looking.

I'm back in the living room, searching for her phone number, when I hear another knock.  This time, I bow to the inevitable and let K in through the studio.  Our guest is gracious (she is on her way out for the night.)

We get set up, and the first hint of trouble arises:  she insists that I use her electric tuner for each string. I have never used a tuner.  I usually get the A and then tune the strings to each other by ear.  I wrestle with the tuner.  It tells me I'm sharp when I think I'm just right.  I work my way up and down the strings, trying to figure it out.  Apparently the problem is that I am not bowing properly.  I am given a little lesson in bowing.

We start playing.  I am sight-reading, just wanting to get a sense of the piece, and I am missing notes and rhythms.  She is interrupting to make me do it right, she is telling me how to bow, how to play, how to match her style.  She asks if I know 3rd position or can find a way to not cross strings so much.  This is all basic stuff.  I feel like a fourth grader with an impatient teacher.  I say, let's try one of the waltzes.  Oy, this one has notes high up on the E string.  I am missing them.  We struggle through and she says, "This isn't going to work.  You don't play the violin."

Now, I am not enjoying playing with her, so I don't understand what happens next.  I feel a warm tingling pain deep at my core, like I've received a body blow without noticing it and am now dealing with the aftermath.  I give a wobbly smile and say, "Okay, I understand."  She goes on about how she likes me personally, but she's a performer and I am not.  I mutter something about having played since 4th grade and mention my 30 years' experience playing in orchestras, and she waves that aside:  she is a professional and cannot work with an obvious amateur.  I say again, "I understand," and she says, "Are you going to cry when I leave?"  I say, "Probably."

I am struggling with the awkwardness of getting this woman, whom I like, out of my house.  She wants to regain a social footing.  "Can I see your house?  D is so proud of it."  No, you cannot see my house, it's in disarray, we are packing for an estate sale and prepping to move out.  She has forgotten about my unemployment and is shocked:  "You read about this happening to people, I didn't realize you were One Of Them."  The tears I have been forcing back break loose.

This is a nightmare.

But I still don't understand the visceral response.  I haven't played violin for several years now, other than little get-togethers with friends.  I've never pretended to be a professional.  I've never, I thought, had my ego attached to being a musician:  it's just something I do, something I love, something I am.   I've always had talent enough to get through, and usually that's enough for me.  Work at it?  Not me.  So why did her words strike at my core?  Why did I spend the rest of the evening curled around the aching spot in my chest?  Why am I crying this morning?

I think I am just tired of the body blows.