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ovenbird
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Motherhood took a lot of things and hid them where I still can’t find them and music was one of those things. When I was new to the world of mothering I was too exhausted to play an instrument and my small son would quite literally cling to my pant leg and scream if I tried to play the violin. So I stopped playing and have not played consistently since. But it is a skill that I’m always trying to claw back from the grasp of intensive parenting so sometimes I pick it up to see if we can still sing together. I tuck the resonant void into the curve of my neck, but my body is resistant to following instructions these days. I’m not sure if it’s age or lack of practice. Probably both. The pinky finger of my left hand will not stay near the fingerboard where it’s supposed to be. It hovers in the air like I’m holding a dainty porcelain teacup painted with roses. Messages from my brain do not reach that finger. It’s gone rogue and there’s nothing I can do about it. My dexterity has diminished. My intonation isn’t always what I want it to be. And still, there is something here that feels necessary. I like being a conduit for ancient tunes– little bits of music that were composed so long ago that no one knows who wrote them. They’ve been passed down for generations, learned by ear, and slowly transformed so there are now dozens of settings with variations both subtle and extensive. I add my own flourishes, small bends, accents and grace notes. I’m mediocre at best, but I am coming to accept this. We don’t chide birds for singing the only songs they know, and I love the raven’s croak just as much as the song sparrow’s lilting melodies. I wonder what they would say about an awkward pale creature who pulls music from a hollowed tree with a wand made of horsehair. I hope that they would marvel and say, “I'm glad to be alive in a world that holds such fragile_wonders.” My fingers may lose their music yet, but_not_today.
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