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Tuesday, March 3, 2015

One Day at a Time

I've cried a lot the last few days. I'm embarrassed and feel guilty to admit that, but it's the cold, hard truth. And that's what this blog is; a safe place to pour out the truth. Especially when it's hard to say it in words.

One of the perks to playing a string instrument is the weather. The strings go out of tune very easily when the changing temperatures and pressures. Oh joy. So the last two mornings of trying to practice at my sister's house in Florida have been frustrating. Every five minutes I've had to stop and completely re-tune my violin.

And I don't even want to practice any way.

I know I have to because I have my junior recital hearing in two and a half weeks. But I still don't want to do it. I don't want my hearing to happen. I'd be much more content writing papers for my major than practicing.

So, not only am I forcing myself to practice, but I also am having to take time to stop and tune my violin. This makes for a not twenty year old attitude. I've thrown private tantrums of sorts, blubbering about how much I hate the violin and hate practicing as I've struggled with my tuning pegs and trill exercises and double stops.

Today, the cause of my crying was Bach. It has long been a truth universally (or universitaly) acknowledged that I do not like unaccompanied Bach. I picked my movement I wanted to do for my recital, but my teacher added another to do. No double stops; easy enough right?


Hate was a frequent utterance this morning. I do hate that movement of Bach. A lot.

I don't know what's wrong with me; if it's spiritual, emotional, mental or physical. I just know I've been apathetic and borderline depressed for the last week and I hate every minute of it. I want my passion back; my drive.

This afternoon, my dad and I went on a driving adventure to find a violin shop near my sister's house. After a very sketchy but beautiful one lane dirt road, we came upon the shop. The wife greeted us with a European accent. It was a mix of German and British. She pronounced out name "Hoeuffmahn" and got a sparkle in her eye when she said it. The husband, was a jolly white-haired man who shared a wealth of knowledge and fun facts about the violin and his life as he adjusted my sound post. He showed me a thirteen inch ruler that he'd had for almost fifty years he had scratched "I <3 Anna" on (who is his wife).

After he adjusted my sound post, he handed me my violin, asking me to play. I played the first bit of the second movement of Tchaikovsky's violin concerto. "Your sound filled the room," he beamed.

I walked out of there with a genuine smile on my face. A desire to practice. A want to be better. No, I don't feel 100% fine. I can still feel a pool of tears behind my eyes. But in this moment, I feel strong. In this moment, I feel powerful. I feel as if I can do anything I set my mind to. I have to take this one day at a time. That's the way we live anyway. That's the only way I can survive this.