Last night it became too much. I opened the closet in the backroom, gripped it's black handle and carried it out to the living room. I unlocked the buckle, unzipped the silver strip. My fingers raced toward it's neck and then drew back, gently tracing the iron strips, the old worn wood.
I spent the better part of an hour between pitches - searching for a note. After all, it has been close to a year since I have held my violin. Last night, last night it became too much. It's for a dozen reasons I haven't. Too busy. Too noisy. Too terrible to torture my roommate and landlady with that kind of howling in the night. But mostly, I think it's a disspointment and a fear. The frustration that I will never be great. And there is this deep, intense longing inside of me to be great - not concert hall great - not great for any other being in the world - only great. To tuck my fiddle under my chin and rest my bow upon my thumb and play something beautiful, something that makes my soul unleash, unleash and flow and rage and dance as it does when I hear music like this:
[Thank you Samara for sharing this beautiful video]