The honeymoon (syrupmoon?) is over

Alas, the bloom is off the rose. Having had a few more pancakes from the Batter Blaster, I am no longer smitten. I'm not even sure if I'll buy the product again! The batter tastes less fresh each time I use it, and the foam coming out of the can is more and more droopy. Perhaps the first use is the best, in which case you need to make a few dozen pancakes all at once, which defeats the idea of cooking for one person over the course of a few weeks. Oh, well... It's time to get out my mom's recipe, which never fails to please.

Batter Blaster

Today is the 7th anniversary of meeting my hubby on the internet. It's not our wedding anniversary, but it's something we like to celebrate every year. We were sitting around trying to decide what to do to celebrate, when hubby mentioned a product he had read about called Batter Blaster. It's organic pancake mix in a whipped cream can. My first thought was "wait...whaaaaaaat???" My second thought was "mmmm...pancakes". Off hubby went to the grocery and picked up a can of this miracle product. I heated up a non-stick pan with some cooking spray, spritzed some batter, and voila: pancakes. Not quite as good as Mom's, but good enough to want to repeat the experiment. I dusted off my waffle maker, and we'll be having waffles in the morning.
Besides the tasty flavor, other benefits of this product are the easy cleanup and the ability to make just as much as you need--no temptation to finish off the rest of the batch.

What an appropriate way to celebrate our first seven years together!

joining the club

A friend of mine just lost her husband of many years. For the last eight of those years, she was his caregiver as well as his wife. She retired a year or so ago, so I don't see her as much these days, but while she was still working she never seemed stressed out, she never complained, she always had a good attitude, even when work was unpleasant. When I first met my husband and was all googly-eyed with new love, she told me that love is wiping your husband's bottom because he can't. That has really stuck with me, and I hope that if and when my husband needs that kind of help that I can be as gracious as she was, and that in the meantime I can express my love in practical ways as well as verbally.

I have noticed a kinship among those who provide care for an unwell loved one. Nobody wants to join this club, and membership comes with a lot of dues. There is a shifting of priorities and an adjustment of expectations, whether it is a spouse or a child or a parent. Those who have not yet experienced this shift may not fully understand this alteration of one's life view, but I think most people eventually find themselves in this position. Your future suddenly looks very different from what you expected, and you are forced to pare your life down to the bare essentials. You find yourself learning to be less selfish, making decisions for the good of your loved one, not for yourself. You find out what is really important to you, not what would be nice to have, but what you can't live without. You discover your limits, and sometimes you discover that your limits can be stretched, and sometimes they cannot. You learn to take pleasure in the mundane, to be grateful for small blessings. You learn your faults. You struggle to find your way out of panic into acceptance and normalcy. You learn more about your faults, and try to accept them and move on.

There are other clubs that one joins when membership expires in this one. There's the widows' and widowers' club, the orphans' club and the grieving parents' club. Frankly, I'm hoping my membership is in good standing in the caregivers club for a long time.

Old

I just had a birthday the other day, and I find myself feeling different about this one. I haven't really minded getting older as I advanced further into adulthood, but now that I'm 38, I have slid into the category of "old crone", as my beloved husband would say. (I feel grateful to him that I'm not an "old maid", at least.) I feel a distinct barrier between myself and those younger than I am. Perhaps those of you who are older than me have no sympathy--I know that I'm not really OLD old, but I am definitely in a different category than those young single girls who live in apartments and buy new cars. I'm halfway to 76!! I'm twice as old as a 19-year-old!! I could have a legal adult for a child if I'd begun procreating earlier! I'm way outside the desirable demographic for advertisers! I'm almost 40! I'm beginning to understand those women who say they are 39 when they are in their 60's. Ugh!

Journey

I recently made a trip to visit my paternal grandparents in Chicagoland--the grandparents who have so generously given so that Grace's gym could be completed. They are in their eighties, and have spent their lives very industriously and frugally. They have been on many bicycle trips, including one with me in England about eight years ago. My Grandpa's frequent answer to the question "how are you?" is "If I felt any better I wouldn't be able to stand it!" Therefore, it is hard to see this same Grandpa moving slowly, taking naps, being unhappy about his health problems, which seem to have multiplied recently. I remember the family reunion in Hawaii in 1991 when Grandpa would walk past all of our cabins at 6:30 AM, cheerfully announcing that it was time to get up. I was a college student at the time, and never saw that time of day, and was always annoyed, but I would give a lot to be able to hear Grandpa with that much energy again.

The trip was enjoyable otherwise--I love talking to my grandparents, learning about their lives and childhoods. My Grandpa talked about his father's alcoholism, his best friends since childhood, all the places he lived in Chicago. Grandma tends to be less talkative about herself, but her skills as a homemaker are unparalleled. In her words, she knows how to make "something from nothing". She grew up on a farm in Iowa during the depression, and those experiences stood her well raising seven kids--she never wastes anything. She always seems very organized and calm, energetic, but never hurried. I really admire her.

I also got a chance to go to the Ikea in Schaumburg. There was one in Plymouth Meeting near where I grew up, and I furnished my early apartments with their inexpensive but well-designed furniture, and still actually have a number of those items. I found a treasure trove of sensory stuff for Grace there, including a few swings and a placemat that is a vinyl mirror on one side. I was itching to buy a ton of other stuff, but my better judgment kept my purchases under $30.

I also visited an exhibit on Hal Foster at the Schaumburg library . Foster was the creator of Prince Valiant, and I have been enjoying collecting these stories, so I thought it might be fun to see this exhibit. Unfortunately, all of the art displayed were what appeared to be blurry, laminated photocopies of his original drawings. In addition, about 1/3 of the exhibit was hung immediately behind computer tables, all of which were occupied, so that I couldn't actually get close enough to see the art. However, they did have wifi, so I was able to check my email and browse the internet on my iPod touch (which I can't live without).

On my way home from Chicago, I was able to stop and visit some friends I hadn't seen in a while, and that was a lot of fun. Their kids are adorable, and they live in a great old house in a tiny town--kind of idyllic. It was really fun to talk with them and revive a friendship that had gotten a little dusty since Grace was born. A lot of my friendships have gone this path in the chaos of dealing with Grace's needs, but I need to make friendships a priority, to give and receive support, to expand my own horizons and take care of myself so that I can take care of my family.

Leavenworth

I am now enjoying my long-anticipated vacation, but I was surprised yesterday evening to find myself feeling lonely, not knowing what to do with myself. I just needed a little time to adjust, and am now fully enjoying the time for myself, though I find myself wanting to call home more often than I need to.

This place is so beautiful--rolling hills, green trees and grass, with many varieties of birds to watch. I am not a "bird-watcher" per se, but could become one, I think. This morning at breakfast I watched several birds eat at feeders outside the restaurant. Their social behavior is fascinating--cardinal pairs feeding each other, blue jays hogging the feeder, males puffing themselves up. I suppose humans are fascinating in the same way.

There are four horses in the pasture overlooked by my deck. I enjoy observing them and their interactions. They stick together, following each other around. Earlier they were all napping in the sun, two standing, two lying down like dogs. I had thought that horses always sleep standing, but I was apparently mistaken. I wonder whether they have a schedule they follow, moving to different areas for shade and sun and moist grass as the sun moves.

I am spending some time getting to know the fingerboard again, starting with Schradieck. I usually skip over the first exercises, but today I discovered with alarm that even those are difficult for me now. Intonation and evenness are my goals. Later I'll work on some Tartini bowing exercises, to remind my arm where each string is. It's almost humiliating to need this, but I will benefit from it.

As I was practicing the Schradieck, I saw the date markings made by my teacher that summer at Meadowmount, Mrs. Vamos. It brought back a flood of memories. I remember being terrified of my teacher, because my violinist uncle had made some offhand remark about teachers there making passes at their students. I was young--13--and took most things literally. I kept waiting for her to do something inappropriate, which of course she never did. I think it got in the way of my really learning from her. Other memories also sprang from that memory, like Sarah Kwak, the Curtis student that lived with us for six years when I was younger, and who had a nickname from Meadowmount--"Spider Crackers"-- which she had put on a t-shirt. I asked her to explain it to me every time she wore it, but she always refused. What an annoying kid I must have been!

Isn't it funny how memories work in cascades?

Countdown to solitude

I am counting down the hours until my vacation. For a few days my temper was fairly high--I think I was terrified that something would prevent me from taking my trip, which I need so badly. I have determined that I am definitely going regardless of my fears of disaster falling upon the household while I'm away, and I'm letting go of those fears so that I can truly rest during this well-deserved break. This means trusting that my daughter's cold will be satisfactorily handled by my husband, that he will make good decisions regarding his own health and rest, and that they really can get along ok without me for a few days.

I've been spending some time downloading music to feed my soul while I'm gone--Beatles, Mahler, Edgar Meyer, Anonymous 4, my friend's harp music. I intend to really take care of myself, to nourish my body and soul.

Lost in Bruckner

Last night we performed Bruckner's eighth symphony, a mammoth work of four movements that lasts about an hour and a quarter. It felt like one of the best performances of my career--a few minor errors here and there on my part and elsewhere in the orchestra, but overall a fantastic, electrifying concert. The audience was our captive, seeming to hold their collective breath even between movements. When we finished, exhausted and sweaty, they rose to their feet shouting bravos, looking transported.

The piece is, according to Mario's interpretation, a searching for answers which do not immediately appear, but when hope is lost, the answer is revealed in a great triumph of ecstasy. This interpretation is linked to Bruckner's ardent Catholicism, his use of hymns to Mary, his almost mystical approach to religion. While I do not share these beliefs, I share the searching for answers and not finding them, losing hope, finding hope.

The orchestra itself is going through a period of loss--a member lost his wife a few weeks ago, others lost parents, our bass trombonist is retiring early for scary medical reasons. I think that these real life events push us as a group to instill more power into our music-making. Music is real--it has a tangible effect on humans. It can make us cry, laugh, unite, wonder. I feel that we transcended our daily grind approach to the job with last night's concert, and while I doubt that we can maintain that for long, I look forward to tonight.

Out of practice

Our garage project is getting closer to being done. The rest of the drywall will be installed on Sunday, then finished soon after. I'm amazed at how long this whole process is. It was last July that I first contacted Make-A-Wish, and I think the project might just be finished in less than a year. It's mainly the construction work, which is our responsibility which has taken up the time. We originally thought that MAW would pay for the work, but when we found out they wouldn't, it took us a while to get a plan of action. Anyway, with a lot of help, we are now on the brink of seeing it come to fruition!

My recent promotion, in combination with the changing dynamic (pardon the pun) at work, is causing me some stress. I enjoy the challenge, but at the same time am burdened by fears that I am not quite meeting that challenge. I am more prepared for rehearsals more of the time, but not always. These last few weeks we are playing very difficult music--Nielsen's 6th symphony and Bruckner's 8th. Even with practice time, I feel myself struggling. I need to make more time to practice and also let go of the tension which is causing my muscles to seize up. I've been having some trouble with my reflexes--the connection from my eyes to my brain to my hands is not smooth. I suspect that stress is the culprit. My stressors are not likely to go away, so I need to find a way to live with them in peace. I've set aside some time next week to get away, and I plan to use some of that time to sleep, meditate and practice.

News

Our family has been laid low by a nasty virus. I seem to be faring the best, with symptoms receding after almost 2 weeks. My daughter is also regaining health, but is still fussy and lethargic. Hubby is doing very poorly, and has developed a bacterial infection. I am hopeful that the antibiotic will kick in soon, especially since we have a ton of work to do in the garage before the contractor starts.
My Grandpa is funding the garage renovation, which enables my daughter's Make-A-Wish to be granted. This is a huge help to us. We are hopeful that the available extra activities of a sensory gym will broaden her world, which is quite narrow these days.
In other news, I recently was promoted to principal player in my section until the Associate Concertmaster returns from medical leave. This means I sit 4th chair and move up as needed. I am enjoying the challenge, and hope that I am able to be more consistent as I adjust. I need to balance my home life and professional life so that neither suffers. I need to be more prepared than usual for rehearsals, which means more regular and intense practice. I find that on the days I don't practice before a service, I feel very unsteady, and have more hand and arm pain. It's a matter of discipline.
I recently fell in love with a chocolate bar from UK--Yorkie (It's Not for Girls!) It's pure bliss to let a chunk melt in my mouth. Yummmmm....

Dog tired

Today is the first day in a long time that I haven't left the house. The Yuletide run ended yesterday evening, and I had no errands to do today, so I've just been hanging out with the family. I haven't seen too much of them lately, and am enjoying being with them. In a few days, I'll be heading off for a few days alone, a sort of retreat for myself, so I need to put some family time in the bank. I have mixed feelings about my trip--my husband's recent diagnosis has left him feeling low, and he's felt trapped alone at home while I've been working, but I really feel the need for some refueling of myself. Before I met my hubby I spent a lot of time alone. During that time I felt very lonely, but looking back, I realize that I needed some of that time alone to recharge myself. So I'm taking a three-night trip to an inn in southern Indiana--two whole days to sit quietly, to sleep, to read, to play with crayons, to watch movies, to practice Tartini and Kreutzer, to think about the changes in my life.

I am working my way towards living in some sort of normalcy. It seems impossible with the threat of loss so close, but I look back and see that I managed to deal with the initial diagnosis of autism for Grace, and was even starting to be okay with her subsequent mito diagnosis. I am not happy about these things, but I can accept that they are part of my life. So I suspect that, given some time, I will also be able to absorb my husband's diagnosis and symptoms. Kevin told me the other day about Seneca's analogy of the dog tied to the cart--is he happier if he fights against the inexorable movement of the cart or if he just trots along behind it? I'm resolved to trot as well as I can. My life may be full of difficulties, but it's my life, and I am better off just accepting the bad along with the good.

Coping strategies

I have been silent on this blog for a long time, as I have been focusing my writing in my daughter's caringbridge page since we got news of her mitochondrial disorder. This week we were told that my husband's muscle biopsy confirmed the presence of the disorder in him, and in a very rare form, which has yet to be fully explained to us. I'm feeling the need to write more for myself again, not so much as a reporter of our miserable prognosis. I'll still keep up the cb page, but hope to spend time here more regularly.

Typically when we get bad news, Kevin crashes right away and then comes to grips with the change of outlook fairly well after a few days. As his foil, I usually function fairly well for a few days as my adrenaline sets in, and then fall to the pit of despair after reality sets in. I am currently in that pit. I recognize that wallowing in self-pity does no good for anyone, and so I am casting about for ways to get myself climbing upward. I tried a trip to Target yesterday afternoon--that was unhelpful, and I even barked at a (theoretically) sweet old lady who unknowingly cut in line ahead of me. I have the unfortunate fault of lashing out when I'm unhappy, and it doesn't serve any purpose other than to release my frustrations for a moment, and thus hurt those around me. I have at least become more aware of this pattern, but I'm not quite able to prevent it when I'm this troubled. In my search for comfort, I consumed some yummy but not good for me foods. This also failed to improve my situation. So I spent some time thinking: when I keep myself busy, I'm less likely to feel down, and doing something nice for someone can also elevate my mood. So I came home and attended to some chores that needed doing, and baked some banana bread with chocolate chips to give as gifts. I do feel somewhat better now. Perhaps keeping busy is just another form of escape, like reading a good mystery novel.

I'm feeling distinctly un-Christmasy. I've played about 16 of the 25 Yuletide shows I'm scheduled for. I love the African Children's Choir, but even they seem somewhat jaded as we approach the last week of shows. Coupled with loss of sleep, my scrooginess causes whole shows to go by with little attention from me. I have started thinking up some fun pranks for the last show, a tradition in the orchestra, and that helps to make the time pass. However, I'm not sure whether I'll feel right about instigating mischief that day, as I'll be sitting concertmaster, and want to set a good example.

Bah Humbug.

Mitochondrial disease

My daughter's blood tests have ruled out everything except mitochondrial disease. She has had a biopsy, and we'll know the results in June. For more information, please check out our caringbridge page.

We're struggling to absorb this monstrous diagnosis into our lives, and are trying to find what the new normality is. We used to worry about who would care for Grace after we die, but now we would do anything to have that worry back. The thought of life without her is staggering. She has become the center of our lives since day one, and now to know that she will be ripped from us too soon is unbearable.

I find some comfort in doing everyday tasks, which gives me the illusion of having some control over our lives. I also have experienced a strange new appreciation for some of the music I play at work. Somehow music does really have meaning in all the meaninglessness. Each moment is filled with the potential for beauty or communication. Each moment I have with my daughter is the same.

New picture

Here is a photo from Grace's recent birthday--I can't believe she's four now!!!!  We gave her some not-so-typical gifts, including her very own laundry basket.  Her face just lit up when her daddy carried it in!  Mine did too, because now I have my laundry basket back!!

Calgon, take me away!!!

 This week, a vacation week for me, has not so far shown  signs of being vacation-esque.
  On Sunday I had to break my mother's heart by canceling our visit to NJ because of Grace's poor sleep and health of late.
  On Monday we took Grace to the neurologist to discuss the not-really-autistic symptoms she has:  feeding problems, including dysphagia and oro-motor dysfunction;  severe gross and fine motor skills delays (about 3 years behind) accompanied by hypotonia; general fatigue and lack of energy.  We went in with info from the interwebs about "global dyspraxia", but he herded the discussion towards some more testing to learn more about where the genes went wrong. He tested her reflexes, and they weren't there. He recommended several blood tests and perhaps a muscle biopsy if the tests show mitochondrial disease as a possibility.  We said that we could accept that Grace have a little needle pricking if he felt it was in her best interests.  Then we went home and looked up mitochondrial disease.  We were horrified to discover that this could be our worst nightmare--cell death, possibly leading to blindness, deafness, and then death.  We have since then (without success) tried not to think about this possibility.  We have to wait another 6 weeks or so before the test results are back.
On Tuesday after school, we took Grace to Riley to have blood drawn.  This was  not fun for anyone within a 5 mile radius.  It took about half an hour to draw enough blood from her shrieking, flailing, straining, surprisingly strong body to fill the never-ending row of test tubes.  On the way home she let us know in no uncertain terms her feelings about being held down and subjected to pointy objects.
Today, Wednesday, was to be another quiet day.  I had some time to visit with some friends and have lunch with another friend.  After a leisurely walk, I checked my cell phone, only to learn that it had run out of juice.  I arrived at home to hubby rushing out the door saying  "I guess you don't know--"  Grace had cut open her face against a table edge at school and had to be taken to a doctor, where they opted for Dermabond instead of stitches.  Reports are that this procedure was not fun for anyone within 15 miles.  I walked in to see that the left side of my daughter's face was still covered in blood, which we weren't allowed to clean up all the way because the Dermabond was still setting.   Tonight we have to wake her up every four hours to make sure she doesn't go into a concussion-induced coma.  She acted pretty much like herself this evening, but a little more clingy, and a little less likely to climb on the table.  She vomited once.
  Tomorrow's a day away!!!

Health care reform NOW!!!

My daughter was very sick last week, and after a phone consultation with a pediatric nurse, we took her to an immediate care center, where it could be determined whether she needed IV fluids. We decided to try a newly opened place, because we thought there would be no wait.

Well, we were the only people there besides the staff--three women in the reception area and a doctor we saw through the window, just sitting around. The woman who came forward to help was very friendly. And stunningly incompetent.

She obviously had no idea how to use the computer system, and had to keep asking for help from the other women, one of whom seemed to be wincing with a headache. When I showed her my insurance card, she seemed mystified. She sat and looked at her screen for several minutes. Then she turned around and asked the others what she should do if there was no ID number on the card. It actually says on the card that the ID number is my SSN. So I volunteered this information, hoping to speed up the agonizing process of registering.

Meanwhile, my daughter is so sick that she doesn't even try to get out of her daddy's lap to explore. Her eyes are sunken, her face pale, her lips cracked, her body limp. We are both very anxious about her health, having seen her in a similar state two years ago when she was hospitalized.

After half an hour of trying to get registered, the woman ushered us back to a room, where we were horrified to discover that she was also our NURSE!!! We exchanged glances while she ineptly took Grace's temperature. She asked us a series of bizarre questions regarding my daughter's vomiting, again displaying total ignorance of the computer she was using to document the encounter. After what seemed an eternity, she finally left the room.

The doctor seemed nice, and gave us suggestions for rehydrating Grace and preventing more vomiting. He finished up by telling us he'd have her prescription ready in a few moments. Hubby took Grace out to the car while I waited. I sat and sat and sat, watching some terrible Lifetime movie in the waiting room. I offered to pay the copay. The nurse seemed surprised--"oh? There's a copay? I didn't see that on your card." Argh!!!!

Meanwhile the doctor is standing a ways back, obviously doing something with a computer. After a half hour of waiting, he finally came out with a handwritten Rx. Argh! Double Argh!!

I'm guessing "immediate care" is just a suggestion.

Hakuna matata

Over the summer I played in the wedding of an acquaintance. Her grandfather, a minister, gave the sermon, and spoke about the difficulty of moving beyond the initial stage of being in love to putting in the hard work required to make a marriage work. I sat, sagely nodding my head, knowing exactly what he meant, and looking at the young couple with stars in their eyes who thought they knew what he meant, but actually had no idea what they were in for.
It has given me food for thought recently--not just young persons' inherent disregard for older persons' words of wisdom, but also older persons' inherent desire to try to get their message across, despite having once been young themselves. It seems that most of the more difficult lessons in life are only really learned the hard way.

Another thought that struck me during that ceremony was how the culture of our times has moved away from the multi-generational society. Families used to be the center of life--people lived with extended family out of financial necessity. The roles of women were defined very narrowly as the center of the family at home. The various stages of life were marked by rituals that were meaningful. The young were shepherded through difficult times by the generations before them, who had been through those same difficult times.

No doubt this pastoral scene I've laid out is rather naive. People also used to be less educated. Women were not allowed to choose their lot. Dysfunctional behaviors continued from generation to generation because no one was exposed to the possibility of a different path.

However, I think maybe we've gone too far the other direction. Children learn to be disrespectful pretty early in their lives. Instead of staying connected to our elders, we move out on our own as soon as possible, choosing to spend all our time with people our own age. We avoid family gatherings and the rituals that they often surround. Because of the loss of rituals, we lose the perspective of ourselves within the larger cycle of life and death. We connect only over the ethernet--anonymous and reinventing ourselves. We watch TV shows that distort the world and we believe that distortion, and make it the real world. Once television got a firm hold on our collective imagination, the young and the pretty became revered, leaving the wise out in the cold. Katie Couric's recent triumph is an example of this trend. Men and women have disfiguring surgeries to perpetuate their own delusion of youth instead of embracing their steady path towards old age.

We should be more aware of the circle of life--our food, the seasons, each day, our own mortality.

Hope

I just wanted to post a little about my daughter, who's been taking great strides developmentally these last months.
She has become more interactive, turning when I speak to her, responding intentionally to instructions, taking turns, playing "games" with us. She has become more responsive to her environment, less dependent on the same repeated episodes of Sesame Street. She wants to be outside all day (even on days like today, stiflingly hot and humid). She is curious about what mommy is doing in the bathroom, and even showers with me daily. She has been babbling. She tries to grab food away from me and is actually eating again, after a year of turning her head at the offer of any kind of food but milk. She has tried new foods and voluntarily put them in her mouth. We had begun to believe that she would need her feeding tube the rest of her life, but other possibilities are peeking over the horizon.

All of these changes are occurring in a time when she has very little in the way of therapy, which has led us to look back over the last few years, when she was in therapies several days a week. How much of her progress was actually a result of her therapy? She seems to make progress when she decides she's ready to do something new or more difficult, not when an adult tries to force it on her. She decided she wants to eat, so she'll eat. My guess is that she will decide to talk when she's good and ready.
(I should say that we do believe that some of her therapies have helped us by showing us new ways to approach her, letting her initiate activities, and turning it around on her, to show her the possibilities.)

Anyway, we are encouraged! We don't know what the future holds for her, but we know that she will likely exceed our expectations.

At least I've got more discipline than some....

It has been a long time since I have written here. There have been two reasons for this: 1) I have had trouble staying healthy for the last few months because of sleep deprivation, and 2) I was practicing for an audition. I haven't taken an audition since my daughter was 9 months old, and before that it was several years.

For the fortunate who've never taken a symphony audition, let me try to describe the process.

When a position becomes open in an orchestra, an ad will appear in the national union paper. You send in your resume, and they send you a list of music to prepare. You show up at the audition a few months later, along with the 30-200 other hopeful musicians who have also been practicing insanely and probably had more time to practice than you. You all sit in a room together talking and/or practicing until a practice room becomes available for each person. Sometimes this means sitting in that room for eight hours, sometimes you get a private room for most of the day, depending on the facilities. When it's your turn to play, you are escorted on a carpeted path to the stage or other large room, where you play a list of excerpts and solo pieces for the audition committee, who are most often hidden behind a screen, to make sure the audition is fair. When they have heard enough (usually about 10-15 minutes) to decide whether you are good enough, they say "Thank you" and you are escorted back to the room where you wait what seems endless hours. The committee listens to a number of people, then takes a break to vote. They may select some people to move on to the next round, or they may send everyone from that group home. After they have heard everyone from the preliminary round, they hear those who passed on to the semi-finals, following the same process to select finalists. The final round is usually without a screen, and the music director is usually present. After the final round, they select the winner(s) or not.

In the case of my most recent audition, I received the most votes in the final round, but still did not get selected. They were apparently looking for a higher level of playing and experience than I have. This has been very difficult for me to deal with emotionally, but I feel that I grew as a musician through the process of preparing for this audition.

I am one of those lucky ones who can get by with very little actual work on the violin while still playing pretty well. I have always avoided practicing, even as an adult. When I was 10 my mother would feel whether the TV was warm to see if I had really practiced while she was gone! In my middle teen years circumstances made it difficult to avoid practicing--we lived with my grandparents who were always home and very strict about such things-- and for a few years I practiced 3 hours a day. When left to my own devices, I was most likely not going to practice. When I went to prestigious Meadowmount School of Music the summer I turned 14, I was supposed to practice 4-5 hours a day. We were monitored closely, but I still managed to play solitaire for many of those hours. Miraculously, my playing still got better that summer.

In college, I was more motivated, but panic practicing was my modus operandi. I also had not yet developed good practice techniques. I had always just repeated stuff when I played it wrong. During my junior year a pianist friend taught me a few exercises with rhythmic practice which worked like a magic trick on difficult fast passages. That made it possible to learn more in a shorter time, but didn't really teach me discipline.

At the end of my junior year, while preparing for a difficult jury, I developed some arm problems that made it painful to hold a book, much less play a Paganini caprice. That whole summer I didn't practice much, and when I returned in the fall my wrists were better and my technique was not so great. I foolishly signed up for my senior recital in October, which left me less than 2 months to learn the repertoire. My recital was mediocre, complete with memorization problems. That whole year I struggled with my identity of myself as a violinist. Who would I be if I couldn't make it in music? Having grown up in a musician-glutted family, I had always just assumed that being a musician was the thing to do. I was passionate about it, and had from an early age identified myself as a violinist. Now that my future felt insecure, I didn't really know who I was.

After graduating, I loafed around my grandparents' house for several months, taking long walks, trying to drum up some violin students. Meanwhile, all my friends were pursuing graduate degrees. I felt fairly useless and hopeless.

I took an audition for a regional orchestra, and won. I slowly started freelancing, gradually accumulating enough work to get my own apartment. I made very little money in those years, but I enjoyed myself, playing a variety of gigs--opera, symphony, weddings, teaching, chamber orchestra. I never practiced.

One year I decided to put on a recital. I practiced for that, and thought I made some improvements. On listening to the recording, I was horrified at how bad my intonation was. I decided to take some lessons with a local university teacher, and she was just what I needed to get back to some of the niceties of violin playing. I took an audition for a more substantial job and won a temporary position. I started taking auditions left and right, surprising myself by getting past the first round a few times. Eventually I won my current job.

After being here for a while I took some more auditions, but decided that the stress was putting my health at stake, so I finally settled down and bought a house. Again, I settled into minimal practice time. Why practice when I could be doing other fun things like reading, watching TV, being outside? After meeting my husband and having a baby, my practicing became a faint memory.

When this most recent audition was advertised, I decided to go for it. Concertmaster in my own orchestra sounded pretty good to me--if I won I'd make more money without having to move! I knew it would be a challenge when I got the repertoire list: it was mostly music I had never played before, and also mostly virtuosic. What I didn't expect once I started working on it was that this challenge would bring me to actually enjoy practicing. I was paying close attention to detail, but also to the larger shapes and phrases, trying to understand the forest of music instead of just looking at the individual trees of technique and perfection. I became more attuned to the reasoning behind musical choices. I was learning music without the aid of a teacher, and discovered that I can make good music without someone telling me exactly what to do. I was hearing and feeling results. I felt good about my playing for the first time in years. In addition, the precious time alone with the violin became a bit of a break from being a wife and mother. It was as though I was revisiting my childhood dream of being a soloist. I felt that I had never played better. What would have happened if I had practiced with this much passion and interest when I was still in college? Where would I be now? Had I missed the path of stardom, or at least distinction, because I didn't have the discipline?

It turns out that all of my practicing still didn't make me concertmaster. But I did learn a little about potential. How ironic that when I finally had the self-confidence and drive to pursue greatness, I was stymied by my lack of those very qualities in the past. I can only go forward now. I can't practice 3 hours a day and still maintain a relationship with my husband and daughter, but I can try to maintain some continuity in my practice, retaining those gems of wisdom that I wrested from the walls of my mind. If further opportunities arise, I can step forward and pursue them with confidence.

Rachmaninoff rights

This afternoon the orchestra played a "run-out" in a tiny burg north of Indy. It was one of those concerts they tack onto a week when some far-flung rich person gives the orchestra money. We had already played this heavy program three times, so it was disheartening to see the small venue with half an audience. Why drag us up here to play for nobody in a high school auditorium, when we really wanted to rest our arms and brains? (I shouldn't complain--I'm on vacation for a week now!)
Anyway, it became clear within minutes of starting the concert that an audience member seated close to the stage had some kind of oxygen apparatus that made a sharp hissing noise every few seconds. It almost sounded like a cymbal swipe. My initial reaction was annoyance: this person should be asked to leave, or at least sit further away from the stage. As musicians, we often discuss the rudeness of noisy audiences (and uninformed audiences who applaud enthusiastically and inappropriately between movements). How dare they disturb the mood with their tubercular coughs and cell phones and hearing aid whistles and conversation and rustling programs! After about 15 minutes of allowing myself to be distracted by the whoosh of this unfortunate individual's machinery, I realized that I was practicing discrimination of some kind. How would I feel if my daughter were told she couldn't remain at a concert because of her disability? Why do I think that we are so special that we can command complete silence at the discomfort of our audience? Isn't music for the audience? At the same time, isn't the audience entitled to enough quiet to be able to listen without distraction? With all this running through my mind, I'm glad I didn't make a wrong entrance. Fortunately I have enough experience to be able to play large swathes of music while daydreaming. However, the question remains--whose rights are most important? In this particular situation, I decided that this oxygen-toting invalid came to the concert to experience something outside xemself, and that I should be able to put that sound into the background of my mind, just as xe has to all day every day. After a while I stopped really noticing the sound, an concentrated on doing my job, which is making good music, not making bad judgments.