Dandelions, Puddles, and Other Matters

I taught two toddlers how to pick dandelions today. It was something of an intervention, actually; they had decapitated quite a few flower heads before I showed them how to pluck from the base of the stem. They proceeded to completely clear the surrounding area of dandelions, using two hands to hold bouquets which would soon be forgotten, left uprooted in the grass as we continued on our walk. We saw some purple clover, as well, just beginning to come up; not bright enough yet to demand plucking. But true delight was found in a puddle, situated conveniently in the middle of the gravel walking path - the perfect place to gleefully deposit more rocks.

The sun was shining, the wind only a little cool; a perfect spring morning. It was delightful to share such a beautiful day with the kids I babysit, exploring the great outdoors. Yet, the beauty of the day made me long for my home in Kentucky, for the spring days of my own childhood, spent wandering about the hills and fields and creeks where I grew up. It's easy to romanticize childhood, to look back and think all days were carefree and perfect. They weren't. But there were many carefree spring days, spent wandering along the creek, picking wildflowers and getting wet. I would gather up huge bouquets of wildflowers - so large I had to use two hands to carry them - and toil up the long hill from the creek to the house, to present them to my mother. I was always beaming with pride, believing my collection of phlox, morning glories, bluebells, and daisies to be the most beautiful bouquet in the world. She graciously humored me and allowed me to place an overflowing vase of them on the kitchen table. Somehow, they never looked quite as beautiful inside as they had in my hands outside.

I went through a dandelion phase, as well; I was so enthralled with smelling them one year, I believe my nose turned a bit yellow for a while. And I stubbornly defended them as flowers, despite the best efforts of nearly everyone else to convince me they were weeds. Then, there was the wild onion phase. They grew all around out creek, and pulling them out of the ground was so immensely satisfying, I simply had to do it, time and again. It wasn't a complete waste, either; I would wash them off in the creek and chew on the stems, delighted in my survival skills. Sometimes I would bring the bigger ones up to my mother, to put on her salad. Occasionally, if my older siblings were with me, we would build a rock oven by the creek, light a fire underneath, and fry the onions on top of a large rock slab. They were immensely delicious that way. The best part was throwing the hot slab back into the creek when were were done - it made such a delightful hissing sound when it hit the water.

Being the youngest of six kids, there are lots of memories of playing outdoors with my siblings. But there's a funny thing that happens when you are the youngest; the others lose interest in childish games before you do. So, I have far more memories of exploring the outdoors by myself, playing at the creek and wandering through fields with nothing but the wind and the birds and the great, blue sky above to keep me company. And the loyal family dogs, always eager to tag along whenever an adventure was to be had. Oh, and a cat or two, usually. I never felt alone outside; in fact, when I felt particularly lonely, or angry, or frustrated, I always felt better after wandering about in the woods. My soul was most at rest when sitting beside the creek, listening to the water leaping over the rocks, the birds chirping above, the tree leaves rustling in the wind. To this day, whenever I am sad or lonely, I have a strong desire to find as remote a place as possible outdoors, preferably by a body of water, and just sit in silence.

I am blessed to live in a small town with nice parks and walking trails. But springtime in the flatlands of Ohio, no matter how beautiful the day, will always make me long for the hills, creeks, trees, flowers, and onions of my old Kentucky home. I may be an Ohio resident, but alas, I will never be anything but a Kentucky girl at heart!

Beauty, Pain, and Ballet

Pretty things hurt. Specifically, ballet. Ballet is one of those things that looks incredibly beautiful, graceful, and effortless, but may actually lead you into a deep, dark abyss of awkwardness, confusion, and soreness in muscles you didn't know existed. Turn your foot out, they say. Move your arms like this, they say. Tighten your core (aka use every muscle in your body), they say. Balance on one toe, they say. Now, make that look graceful and effortless!

Before I bring the wrath of all ballerinas - including my amazing ballet teacher - upon my head, let me say this: I sincerely love ballet. I love it enough to stare into the abyss of my shortcomings every Monday night, determined to somehow stretch a little further, turn out a little more, balance a little longer each week. I love it enough to walk around for several days afterward with a vague (or acute) soreness in both legs and a new awareness of my "core." I love it so much that even after limping around for a day thanks to a mildly strained tendon in my foot (a.k.a. what happens when you try to balance on one toe but don't listen to your teacher and end up balancing the wrong way), I can't wait to try again next week - the right way.

Still, learning a new skill as an adult is hard. Especially when it doesn't come "naturally." I'm a big fan of adults learning new things (see: my adult string orchestra class and entire graduate thesis), and one reason I take ballet is to put my philosophy into practice. When my adult orchestra students balk at performing a public recital, I can say, "I get it. I'm going to wear a leotard and puffy skirt and dance in front of all my music students at the recital and try to look graceful but let's be honest, I'll just be happy if I don't fall over. But I'm doing it because I want all my students to know it is never too late to learn new things - and I want you, my adult students, to help me teach that to them." I'm not sure it makes my adult students feel any better, but at least I can empathize with how they are feeling.

But I take ballet for other reasons, too. I thought about them while limping around for a day and evaluating my life choices. So, here they are:

1. Ballet is really, really great exercise. Seriously. It's incredibly physical, and you might not realize how much strength it takes to just move one leg the right way, much less balance on one toe! Beyond building strength and endurance, ballet develops flexibility, gracefulness (still working on that one), spatial awareness, balance, and good posture.

2. Once a week, I set aside my cares and to-do list and do something purely for my own health and well-being. That paper due the next day doesn't even cross my mind when I'm trying to spin without getting dizzy. I've yet to master the allusive skill of "spotting," so I'm not actually successful in spinning without getting dizzy. Yet.

3. I get to meet new people and develop friendships with folks I would never have met outside ballet class. And trust me, you build a special relationship with someone when you almost kick them in the face on accident while warming up at the barre. But in all seriousness, there is great camaraderie as we laugh together, fall over together, grow together, and cheer each other on.

4. It's something I've always wanted to do, and now I have the chance to do it. No explanation needed for that one.

5. There's an immense wave of satisfaction when I do master a skill. I may be an imperfect musician, an imperfect music teacher, and certainly an imperfect ballerina - but I can now balance on one leg (toe, not yet - but leg? Yes), for a really long time without holding onto the barre, and I'm rather proud of that.

6. Last but not least, ballet is good for my pride. It keeps me humble. I have to become a beginner again, willing to learn new things, fail in front of everyone, and keep trying until I succeed. And it's definitely, completely, with-all-my-heart, 100% worth it.

On being late.

I was a few minutes late to church today - the singing had just started when I slipped into my seat. I'm not usually late; I prefer to be early. But today, I was late, and I smiled because it reminded me of my childhood. Of the weekly "walk of shame," as I called it, dutifully following my family down the church aisle as we marched to the front of the sanctuary five or ten or fifteen minutes late, my father scanning the rows for one with enough seats to house the three or four or five or six or eight of us there that day. I was a master at avoiding eye contact during this weekly walk; I thought for sure everyone was silently judging me. In hindsight, they likely didn't think twice about a family entering late; but the experience (coupled with chronic lateness to every other activity, from co-op to soccer practice), was enough to hammer out a pure determination to, as much as it depended on me, never be late again.

I laugh at myself now; how silly I was to obsess over such a trivial thing for so many years. When I started driving myself and living my own life, I prided myself in always being early. I was a junior in college before I entered a class late; and then it was only because my car emergency brake had frozen on, and no amount of cajoling or railing or tears would get it to budge. I eventually made it to class with a borrowed car, mortified and apologizing profusely to the professor, who was usually late to class himself and probably didn't care a bit that I walked in halfway through the lesson.

I used to think the chronic tardiness of my family is what fueled my obsession with being early; but in reality, it was pride - ugly pride that made me think I was too important to walk into a room last. I'm not saying it's wrong to be early; on the contrary, I am still almost always early. In my profession, you're late if you are on time. A 2:00 o'clock rehearsal means you are in your seat ready to play no later than 1:55; a 4:00 pm lesson means my teaching materials and instrument are out and ready to go when my student arrives at 3:58 pm. These are good and healthy habits, showing preparation and respect for others by not wasting their valuable time. But there is a difference between being punctual out of respect for others, and being punctual because I am too proud to be late. There's a balance somewhere. I can't say I've found a perfect balance - but let's just say I no longer do the walk of shame if I happen to enter church late. This morning I simply smiled and nodded at a few people I knew, found my seat, and started worshiping. It's not about me, after all. It never was.

Two-Year-Olds

There is music in his eyes, in his hands, in his knees, his toes. He can't help moving when I play or sing or tap a beat. His impish grin delights my heart; the pure innocence of his two-year-old joy makes me glad. Sunshine pours through the window, bathing her in golden light at she fits a puzzle together on the floor. Her fingers are confident, her brow furrowed in concentration. The puzzle is finished; she looks at me and claps her hands, her own two-year-old joy blending with that of her brother, until we are all laughing and the sunshine is warm and I wonder if everyone would be happier if they spent more time with two-year-olds.

Waiting

I'm thinking about waiting tonight. Waiting for something is a strange thing. There is a lot of waiting in my life right now; I suppose there is for everyone. At the moment I'm waiting anxiously for my nephew to make his entrance into this world; he's making us all wait, now 12 days after his due date. I'm not sure why I'm so eager for him to arrive; after all, logic says he will come sooner or later. Modern medicine says he will come sooner, and he should be arriving tomorrow. This waiting has a promised end; but not all waiting does. Sometimes, the waiting stretches on and on, and we don't know if it will ever be answered. 

That is the hardest waiting of all; the unknown. I'm thankful the unknown is known to God; and God, through Christ, is known to me. Otherwise the waiting would seem unbearable; but since the unknown is known by someone I know, the unbearable becomes bearable, and I can rest in my waiting.

Thoughts on Bach

Right now, I'm working on playing a piece of music by J.S. Bach - the Prelude to Partita no. 3 for Solo Violin, to be exact. In case you're not a musician, or have never played Bach, let me just tell you: Bach has to be perfect. Every pitch must be perfectly in tune, the sound must be deep and ringing, every note played must be precisely placed. There are quite a few techniques I'm working on with this piece, but certainly one of the most important is intonation. I find as I'm playing a certain passage, if a single note is not perfectly in tune, the whole passage begins to creep out of tune. This creep is so subtle, sometimes I don't even realize I'm wrong until I check the note with an open string.

The same is true with my Christian walk. I can be happily chugging along, living out my day, but if I haven't checked my life with God's word recently, I can be terribly out of tune without even realizing it. Just like Bach must be played perfectly, Jesus asks that I live perfectly. Of course, to be perfect is not possible on this side of heaven - but to strive for it, to cling to what is Good, to serve God in truth and love - these are things that are always working themselves out in my life. Still, I must be daily tuned in to Christ and His Word for these things to work themselves out properly. Otherwise, my life will be like my Bach - slowly sneaking out of tune. Every day, I practice my Bach and work on getting the notes more precise, more in tune, deeper and more resonant. And every day, I should be working out my faith just as diligently, striving for every thought, every action I take to be lined up with God's Word.