Fiddle Camp
So this summer I signed up for fiddle camp. The invitation came via Facebook, inviting youth thru adults who had never played, never even held a violin. Perfect description of my skill level. A week-long class, three hours a day, should help me decide if this is something I want to pursue. I signed up.
August 1-5, I was to be immersed in the fine art of fiddle playing.
Day One: I learn that I am the only adult in the class. Yep, the class was me and around 30 5-10 year olds. My pant leg was tugged more than once as a small child asked how to put the shoulder rest on their violin, how to tune the instrument, did they need to rosin up their bow. "I'm a student, not a teacher," was my reply. "But that lady over there can answer your questions."
I learned how to pick up and old my violin in the rest position. I learned how to get it to my shoulder - place your finger on the button, put the button to your ear, slide the violin to your shoulder, tilt your chin up, look to your left, lay your chin on the chin rest.
Excellent. One day in and I can get my violin safely from the case to my shoulder.
Then, on to percussion. We spent about 45 minutes each day working on a couple of percussion numbers which were to be part of the recital on friday. I became very aware of the age difference between my peers and me when the instructor said, "OK, you need to take the buckets off your heads." I looked around the room and at least half of my fellows had placed there buckets on their heads and were banging ferociously on them with their drumsticks. I am so past that!
Day Two: The kids now know, without a doubt, that I am their peer in this week's class. Ha! Told You!
This day there was actual playing. Once we had practiced getting the instrument to our shoulders several times, we started working on finger placement and plucked out a song (this would be the song we would play most for the duration of camp, and would perform at the friday recital. Yikes!) Over and over we played. Perfecting our little tune. As I focused on playing, on learning and doing my best, the differences in age seemed to disappear.
Day Three: Today we were introduced to our bows. Things started to get fun. Our song started sounding like a song. For fun we got to try a new song. One know-it-all girl started getting on my nerves. Every time the instructor would say something, Ms Know-it-All would add her own wisdom or correct her. This is the same day another youngster, I'm guessing she is on the Autistic spectrum, decided I was her protector. I was OK with that.
Day Four: Tomorrow was the big performance. We practiced and practiced - fiddling and banging on buckets. There were those who were scared, Those who were having fun, those who played well, and those who only thought they did. Seems like these are the same personalities that show up in just about every situation in life - school, career, parenting.
At the lunch break, Ms Know-it-All told my frightened, clingy charge that she could only go outside with the group if ... and she proceeded to rattle off her checklist. I do not know what came over me, but I looked at Ms Know-it-All and asked "who made you boss of the world?" I felt the hysteria bubbling up inside me. And for the life of me i can't explain it but it was very liberating to say those words again.
That night I practiced several times, feeling confident I could get through the recital.
Day Five: Ms Know-it-All was somewhat subdued (comparatively) so I know someone had a chat with her. We did a run through of the recital, and the parents started arriving. There are several I knew. One asked if I'm a teacher. "No, a student," I said. "That is very brave," she said as she laughed her way over to her seat. Another said, "I thought everyone knew only kids came to this camp." At this point, I had a little chat with myself. I could either go the totally self-conscious, freaked out route, or I could be playful and just go for it. I decide to go the playful direction and stick it out through the recital.
We started off with the percussion. My theory was that this was to numb our listeners sense of hearing before the fiddling began, but I could be wrong.
We, the beginners, played our song. And you know what? It sounded good. It sounded like a song. Woo Hoo. We did it!
Then, we had a couple of special guests who were expert players. Wow! If we practice (a lot) maybe we could play that well ... someday.
Finally, the intermediate group played several songs. They did great!
Now, a month later, I see my fellow fiddle campers around town. They come up and talk to me. What do we talk about? Fiddling, of course. For in that, we are the same age.
Showing posts with label Soul Appeal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Soul Appeal. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Junk Drawer
Everyone has one. In it goes all the odds and ends, the tidbits that lack another logical home, and glimpses of our lives, habits, where we’ve been and what we’ve done. I speak, of course, of the Junk Drawer.
What’s in yours? What story does it tell?
One glance in my Junk Drawer tells much of my tale.
It is neat and orderly, which seems oxymoronical for a Junk Drawer.
You’ll see expired ski passes – mine, my sweetie’s, my youngest son’s. Those are in the front, left-hand corner.
And pens (yes, they all work), more pens than I could use in a lifetime. There are pens from faraway Marriotts and Hiltons. There are pens from exotic resorts in Jamaica, Mexico, Italy and France. There are a gajillion from Panhandle State Bank – do I get those when I make deposits or withdrawals?
Over here is a stack of coupons, long expired – pizza, girl products, toothbrushes. Guess I paid full price.
Batteries are rolling around in the Junk Drawer. I wonder if they are dead or alive.
Look, it’s the itty bitty screwdrivers my dad used to use. When he passed away, I got all of his hand tools. Funny, that’s all I would have wanted. Oh, and his old, beat up, well traveled leather jacket. What else would the Tomboy daughter want? I can’t count the hours I spent, as a wee lass, retrieving tools from the shed for my dad. Yes, I have brothers but … By the time I was 5 years old, I knew my way around the tool chests. If he yelled for a 7mm socket wrench, by golly that’s what I delivered. I always loved these mini-screwdrivers. Heck, they’re so cute, Barbi could love them.
In the back right corner is the organizer box. One compartment for needles for the bike and ball air pump, another has spare game parts – Monopoly, Cribbage. I’ve got push pins, straight pins and needles … Pins and Needles? Here is some florist wire, which is one of the handiest things a girl can have on hand. Well, that and cammo duct tape! I’ve got nails and screws, for nailing and screwing. There are wall anchors of all shapes and sizes, Canada coins and rubber bands.
You’ll find a couple of decks of cards – full decks, a cribbage board, and a local phone book. And where did all of these wine corks come from?
Finally, there are the keys. What are all these keys? What did they open or lock? When last used, did they leave things locked or unlocked? I like to think unlocked, that the last click the doors and padlocks felt was one of opening - of freedom.
Instead of throwing away the key, I put it in the only logical place, my Junk Drawer
What’s in yours? What story does it tell?
One glance in my Junk Drawer tells much of my tale.
It is neat and orderly, which seems oxymoronical for a Junk Drawer.
You’ll see expired ski passes – mine, my sweetie’s, my youngest son’s. Those are in the front, left-hand corner.
And pens (yes, they all work), more pens than I could use in a lifetime. There are pens from faraway Marriotts and Hiltons. There are pens from exotic resorts in Jamaica, Mexico, Italy and France. There are a gajillion from Panhandle State Bank – do I get those when I make deposits or withdrawals?
Over here is a stack of coupons, long expired – pizza, girl products, toothbrushes. Guess I paid full price.
Batteries are rolling around in the Junk Drawer. I wonder if they are dead or alive.
Look, it’s the itty bitty screwdrivers my dad used to use. When he passed away, I got all of his hand tools. Funny, that’s all I would have wanted. Oh, and his old, beat up, well traveled leather jacket. What else would the Tomboy daughter want? I can’t count the hours I spent, as a wee lass, retrieving tools from the shed for my dad. Yes, I have brothers but … By the time I was 5 years old, I knew my way around the tool chests. If he yelled for a 7mm socket wrench, by golly that’s what I delivered. I always loved these mini-screwdrivers. Heck, they’re so cute, Barbi could love them.
In the back right corner is the organizer box. One compartment for needles for the bike and ball air pump, another has spare game parts – Monopoly, Cribbage. I’ve got push pins, straight pins and needles … Pins and Needles? Here is some florist wire, which is one of the handiest things a girl can have on hand. Well, that and cammo duct tape! I’ve got nails and screws, for nailing and screwing. There are wall anchors of all shapes and sizes, Canada coins and rubber bands.
You’ll find a couple of decks of cards – full decks, a cribbage board, and a local phone book. And where did all of these wine corks come from?
Finally, there are the keys. What are all these keys? What did they open or lock? When last used, did they leave things locked or unlocked? I like to think unlocked, that the last click the doors and padlocks felt was one of opening - of freedom.
Instead of throwing away the key, I put it in the only logical place, my Junk Drawer
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Puddle Party
I voted today.
My polling place is an elementary school.
I showed up a few minutes before 8 AM, early, so I waited in my car, reading and watching kids walking down the sidewalks to school.
It has been raining in Sandpoint. Of course it’s been raining in Sandpoint. It’s fall. It’s always raining in Sandpoint. There was a good supply of puddles in the uneven sidewalks. That’s another given in Sandpoint, potholes and uneven sidewalks makes for lots of puddles.
Anyway, I watched the kids negotiating the puddle directly in front of my car.
The first two girls, probably 7 years old, stopped and carefully skirted around the puddle. It was just in the way. They had boots on, but didn’t want to get them wet I guess.
The next second-grade pedestrian was attired in high-top Converse All-Stars and Pippy Longstocking-style hosiery. She stopped, gazed into the puddle, skimmed the surface with her high top and then proceeded to stomp both feet in the puddle, before sprinting to the door. My kind of kid.
Then came a pair of blond elementary-goers to the puddle. Both bent at the waist, looked at their reflections in the puddle, burst into giggles, and jumped cleanly over the pool. Must have been a good two feet across, and they were flying!
There was a constant stream of kids taking their turns at that puddle for the 20 minutes I sat there.
It occurred to me that every kid that came along saw that puddle in their own unique way. Some didn’t see it at all, they only saw themselves, and that was ok too.
What a perfect place to participate in the democratic process - freedom at work, and the future of it all out exercising their simple right to see things as they want to.
I’m glad I live where I can vote. Where children can look into their very own puddle and dream whatever they want.
My polling place is an elementary school.
I showed up a few minutes before 8 AM, early, so I waited in my car, reading and watching kids walking down the sidewalks to school.
It has been raining in Sandpoint. Of course it’s been raining in Sandpoint. It’s fall. It’s always raining in Sandpoint. There was a good supply of puddles in the uneven sidewalks. That’s another given in Sandpoint, potholes and uneven sidewalks makes for lots of puddles.
Anyway, I watched the kids negotiating the puddle directly in front of my car.
The first two girls, probably 7 years old, stopped and carefully skirted around the puddle. It was just in the way. They had boots on, but didn’t want to get them wet I guess.
The next second-grade pedestrian was attired in high-top Converse All-Stars and Pippy Longstocking-style hosiery. She stopped, gazed into the puddle, skimmed the surface with her high top and then proceeded to stomp both feet in the puddle, before sprinting to the door. My kind of kid.
Then came a pair of blond elementary-goers to the puddle. Both bent at the waist, looked at their reflections in the puddle, burst into giggles, and jumped cleanly over the pool. Must have been a good two feet across, and they were flying!
There was a constant stream of kids taking their turns at that puddle for the 20 minutes I sat there.
It occurred to me that every kid that came along saw that puddle in their own unique way. Some didn’t see it at all, they only saw themselves, and that was ok too.
What a perfect place to participate in the democratic process - freedom at work, and the future of it all out exercising their simple right to see things as they want to.
I’m glad I live where I can vote. Where children can look into their very own puddle and dream whatever they want.
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Grammy's, A Burrito, and a Sick Boy
Friday I walked over to the post office to send off the Soul Appeal Records entries to the Grammy’s. I’m pretty sure my feet weren’t touching the ground. It’s just plain fun to throw your songs into the music industry hat, see what happens.
Once posted, I headed back to the office via a different route, this one in front of the Daily Bee (our local newspaper), where there was apparently a “yard sale” going on. The sale was on both sides of the sidewalk, so foot traffic was funneled through. Yes, I looked. Voila, I found two picnic table cloths (on the list for the camp box), but no prices. I got in line to inquire.
The woman in front of me handed over a twenty for her few items and was on her way. Turns out this was a sale “by donation” and the money was going to a boy in town who has brain cancer. The family, including cousins and extended relatives, were giving up household belongings, sporting equipment, every single thing they could spare to raise money for medical care for the young boy.
Both feet now solidly on the ground, I watched as person after person gave $10, $20, $50 dollars to help a boy they did not know. I watched as the things that were being sacrificed by one family to try and save a life were finding new homes at prices they probably didn’t see new.
When you made a donation, you got a coupon for a free burrito from Joel’s (the best Mexican food anywhere, served up by the nicest people you could hope to meet). So I got Tim and we walked to Joel’s. Joel said, “the coupon is good only on Sundays,” (the day they are closed). “And I was going to tell you how great I thought you were for being so generous and giving,” I replied. We all had a good, neighborly laugh.
While we enjoyed our lunch, a friend from the radio station was chatting with us. “What’s going on over at the Bee,” he asked. I told him. “I’ve got a few spare bucks in my pocket,” he said, “I’ll take it over.”
Tim and I could both feel the tears stinging our eyes.
People want to help. People do not want to see others in pain. People are inherently good.
Once posted, I headed back to the office via a different route, this one in front of the Daily Bee (our local newspaper), where there was apparently a “yard sale” going on. The sale was on both sides of the sidewalk, so foot traffic was funneled through. Yes, I looked. Voila, I found two picnic table cloths (on the list for the camp box), but no prices. I got in line to inquire.
The woman in front of me handed over a twenty for her few items and was on her way. Turns out this was a sale “by donation” and the money was going to a boy in town who has brain cancer. The family, including cousins and extended relatives, were giving up household belongings, sporting equipment, every single thing they could spare to raise money for medical care for the young boy.
Both feet now solidly on the ground, I watched as person after person gave $10, $20, $50 dollars to help a boy they did not know. I watched as the things that were being sacrificed by one family to try and save a life were finding new homes at prices they probably didn’t see new.
When you made a donation, you got a coupon for a free burrito from Joel’s (the best Mexican food anywhere, served up by the nicest people you could hope to meet). So I got Tim and we walked to Joel’s. Joel said, “the coupon is good only on Sundays,” (the day they are closed). “And I was going to tell you how great I thought you were for being so generous and giving,” I replied. We all had a good, neighborly laugh.
While we enjoyed our lunch, a friend from the radio station was chatting with us. “What’s going on over at the Bee,” he asked. I told him. “I’ve got a few spare bucks in my pocket,” he said, “I’ll take it over.”
Tim and I could both feel the tears stinging our eyes.
People want to help. People do not want to see others in pain. People are inherently good.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Two Strangers Having A Laugh
Living in Sandpoint, Idaho has it upsides - beautiful views, sparkling water, sailing, fishing, and skiing. And it downsides - it’s 6 hours to Seattle, 8 hours to Portland, the closest cities with Trader Joe’s stores.
Consequently, when any of our friends make those trips, we all send along a list for cheese, crackers, wine, nuts, and other favorite TJ’s items. It also means we have a couple of the reusable Trader Joe’s bags around and in use all the time. (We’re trying to do our part to keep the plastic bags out of the landfill, the ditches, the lake, and the trees).
Yesterday, I rode my bike over to the Sandpoint Safeway store for some sandwich fixin's, a couple of apples and a cold six pack to take to my play rehearsal (my turn to provide the liquid creativity).
I put it all in my reusable, Trader Joe's, multi-colored bag and was pedaling down the avenue, trying to keep my balance with about 10 lbs of stuff hanging off my left wrist. (I crashed once with a gallon of milk under the same circumstances, but that's another story for another time).
At a stop sign, a guy in a Mercedes pulls up by my left handlebar. The passenger window hisses down and he says, across the passenger seat, "hey, where's the nearest Trader Joe's?" (tourist).
I said, "Seattle … and it was a bleeding long ride."
A beat …
Then the guy absolutely cracked up. Put his car in neutral and laughed. Says, "they still got 2 buck Chuck?" (TJ's signature cheap wine).
"Yeah, but it's just Chuck now, ‘cause it doesn't cost 2 bucks any more."
"Yeah, well what does?" He was laughing as he pulled away. And so was I.
That was fun.
Two strangers having a laugh.
There's pretty good stuff everywhere really, and it doesn’t cost much either.
Consequently, when any of our friends make those trips, we all send along a list for cheese, crackers, wine, nuts, and other favorite TJ’s items. It also means we have a couple of the reusable Trader Joe’s bags around and in use all the time. (We’re trying to do our part to keep the plastic bags out of the landfill, the ditches, the lake, and the trees).
Yesterday, I rode my bike over to the Sandpoint Safeway store for some sandwich fixin's, a couple of apples and a cold six pack to take to my play rehearsal (my turn to provide the liquid creativity).
I put it all in my reusable, Trader Joe's, multi-colored bag and was pedaling down the avenue, trying to keep my balance with about 10 lbs of stuff hanging off my left wrist. (I crashed once with a gallon of milk under the same circumstances, but that's another story for another time).
At a stop sign, a guy in a Mercedes pulls up by my left handlebar. The passenger window hisses down and he says, across the passenger seat, "hey, where's the nearest Trader Joe's?" (tourist).
I said, "Seattle … and it was a bleeding long ride."
A beat …
Then the guy absolutely cracked up. Put his car in neutral and laughed. Says, "they still got 2 buck Chuck?" (TJ's signature cheap wine).
"Yeah, but it's just Chuck now, ‘cause it doesn't cost 2 bucks any more."
"Yeah, well what does?" He was laughing as he pulled away. And so was I.
That was fun.
Two strangers having a laugh.
There's pretty good stuff everywhere really, and it doesn’t cost much either.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Offering and Accepting
I have a good friend, Dee, who called her neighbor, Rae, who is getting married in a few weeks.
Dee called to offer the use of her stunning home as a place to host wedding guests. (Rae’s wedding is in her yard and it is way off the beaten path).
Seems Dee was going to be out of town during the wedding and thought Rae might just need some extra rooms and possibly refrigerator space after the party. Her house will just be sitting there. And it’s so close to the Wedding.
Dee left a message on Rae’s machine a couple of times. “Hey give me a call when you have a chance.”
Rae called back about a week later. She had put off calling because she was apprehensive that the call might be about some difficulties that had come up with some new members of the neighborhood. (Just what Rae needed on top of all the wedding plans).
When Dee made the offer of her home for Rae’s use, Rae was overwhelmed.
“My fiancée’s best friend from college just called and wants to come. We were so excited, but we had no idea where we would put them. I was afraid they weren’t going to make it if we didn’t find a place for them to stay,” said Rae. “It’s like this miracle just dropped out of the sky. This is just perfect.”
A big smile on each end of the phone.
Offering and accepting.
A perfect gift for both.
When we allow someone to give to us, often that provides the giver something vitally important toward being the kind of person they want to be.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The surprising truth about what motivates us
A while back, a group of friends and I were discussing our need, not just a want but a passionate need, to do something that matters. To put good into the world.
I assumed this need to make a positive contribution was due largely to the age of the folks in the group, all 40+. And, that we were all well into our careers and have had positions, at one time or another, that were for an economic good, rather than the common good of people. It seems that my assumptions about what drives our need to do good was a bit off the mark.
According to Dan Pink's animated video, Drive, as the days of top-down management are winding down, and the era of innovative, creative thinking across organizations is upon us, people of all ages everywhere are motivated by giving, accomplishing, doing good stuff - and all without monetary incentive or reward.
When you have 10 minutes, watch Dan's video and let me know you thoughts. Dawnya
I assumed this need to make a positive contribution was due largely to the age of the folks in the group, all 40+. And, that we were all well into our careers and have had positions, at one time or another, that were for an economic good, rather than the common good of people. It seems that my assumptions about what drives our need to do good was a bit off the mark.
According to Dan Pink's animated video, Drive, as the days of top-down management are winding down, and the era of innovative, creative thinking across organizations is upon us, people of all ages everywhere are motivated by giving, accomplishing, doing good stuff - and all without monetary incentive or reward.
When you have 10 minutes, watch Dan's video and let me know you thoughts. Dawnya
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