An Ode to Joy

I played the violin for three short years of my life. If you ask my siblings, even three years was probably too long a time. I was a screecher. I never reached that point of the stunning vibratos and enduring high notes. Don't believe me? Ask my mom. After all, it was her comment to some unknown friend on the telephone that I overheard one day while taking a break during practicing ("I just can't wait for the day when she plays nicely and doesn't squeak anymore") that led to my quitting of all things strings. For some reason, I feel the need to tell you why I quit before I tell you what I learned from playing.

I remember one violin lesson in particular. I was working on a recital piece, I don't remember which one, just that it was in one of those classical music books that are sort of cream-colored with the name of some famous composer surrounded in leaves on the cover. To me, those books were The Not Fun To Play Books. (I was more of an Arkansas Traveler type of a girl, not so much a minuet lady).

I did pretty well through the first few bars of the song, but there were three measures right in the middle of the page that kept tripping me up. My teacher kept making me repeat them over and over and over and finally she said, "Marinda, you are so worried about what is coming next that you are missing the easy notes right in front of you."

I've heard her voice come back to me several times over the years during periods of waiting. Waiting to graduate from high school so I could go to college. Waiting for Prince Charming to come (when he was a letter away all along). Waiting for my mission call so I could just leave already. Waiting an eternity, even though it was only minutes, to hear the diagnosis from the doctor that I knew was coming all along. Waiting to go home to a home that wasn't home anymore. Waiting for the go-ahead to go back to Texas. Waiting for my mission to be over so I could just get married already. Waiting for everything to be okay with my health so we could have a baby. Waiting for that last semester of college to be over so I could get on with being a mom. Waiting for my baby to get out of the hospital so I could really get on with being a mom. Waiting for my husband to finish his degree so we could get a real job.

Right now, I am worried about what is coming next. For me, for my little family, for my parents, for my siblings.

It occurred to me yesterday that I can't be so overwhelmed with what might happen that I'm not preparing for what will happen (whatever that may be).

So today I have been playing the "easy notes." I cleaned out my closet and created a bag to give to the DI. I called one of my best friends just to check in and see how she is doing. I read a few chapters of a book. I fed, changed, played, and cuddled with my baby. We had story time and she tried to eat the books. I paid the rent. I got groceries and checked the mail. I took Scott to school.

The easy notes add up. The combine together, they dance around each other, they strike chords in us that we didn't realize meant so much. They leave each listener that takes the time to appreciate them, in their simplicity, filled with awe.

After all, there is a reason "Ode to Joy" is in beginner songbooks.