Resonance

 Photo credit: My Mama (no really, my mom took this)

It's springtime! Cue the happy band. Having recently (re)read Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (highly recommended), I'm in a gardening kind of mood. Our lovely lawn has been taken over by dandelions, and my unpruned hydrangea bush is headed for another year without blooms, but that's okay because the soil I'm digging up is destined to grow delicious, kitcheny things.

We built some raised beds to house a vegetable garden this year. CPod and the boys played with power tools while I mixed batches of peat moss and compost. As I dragged the rake through the soil, over and over, I kicked off my flip-flops and felt the good, clean squish of damp dirt between my toes. My muscles strained, my breath came faster, and I caught myself smiling.

Enjoying the moment? Happy to be productive? Excited at the prospect of home-grown tomatoes, squash, beans, zucchini, broccoli, cabbage, spinach, basil, parsley? Definitely. All of the above. But more.

I had a flash of clarity, working there in that garden -- a fleeting glimpse of eternity as I felt a brief but poignant kinship with generations of women in my family who had done exactly what I was doing in that very moment. My muscles remembered, suddenly, what they had been designed to do. In that instant, I understood that it's not just my character that has been shaped by the men and women who came before me. The very molecules of my body are a reflection of who we have all been, collectively, over the years.

My mom likes to say she has always been a square peg in a round hole. And when she and my dad had children, they raised a bunch of square pegs. Try rhombus pegs. Or stars. Any polygon, really, as long as it's incongruent with Normal. But a few times in my life, I have found places, done things, met people who made me feel like my peg was just the shape that was missing: On stage, enthralled, drinking up my first full symphony orchestra experience. In front of a class, teaching -- any subject. With certain dear friends through the years. Meeting my husband. Holding my babies for the very first time. When the words are flowing, and I recognize myself in what I've written. In the wonderful church that I have embraced (and been embraced by) my whole life, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. In Blogland, with all of you square pegs out there. Wandering around the medieval streets of a small European town. Exploring places, any place, indoors, outside, wilderness, city, museums, mountains. Always, with my family full of multifaceted pegs. And now, working in the dirt. (I should have seen it coming.)

I'm going to call it resonance -- a soul-deep recognition of something you were born to do. Tell me, dear readers -- what were you born to do?

InkMom Spills Everything, Part One

My dear readers -- thank you for fueling my ego by asking genuine questions about my life. I've since questioned the wisdom of being so blatantly narcissistic . . . but why fight against my true nature? We have already established that I was first in line when they handed out self-esteem (and then I went to the back of the line for a second helping) and this little jaunt into my brain will not disappoint, I promise. Let's dive right in, shall we?

I'll begin at the beginning, with Kristina P.'s question:

1. "What did you want to be when you grew up?"

Good one, KP. I was pretty sure I remembered what I wanted to be when I was little, but I dug out my old journal for corroboration. Can we just say that the only constant through the years with me has been melodrama? Seriously. Direct quote: "I dream of one day becoming a concert pianist, but I doubt it will come true. I am afraid that by the time I am old enough to become any type of concert musician, the world will be too far gone in wars and all that, that people won't appreciate music and art and beautiful things like I do anymore."

It's true. I had no friends.

But for real. I wanted to be a concert pianist. Until, oh, about eighth grade when I played in a REALLY BIG and important competition. I was a wreck for weeks before -- trouble eating, no sleeping. I read the DH Lawrence story, "The Rocking-Horse Winner" and felt just like that kid -- absolutely desperate to get the right answers. I still have nightmares about that day in the little room at Wake Forest University -- me, the judges, and about 40 other spectators. In my nightmare, I crumble slowly, forgetting music that was so ingrained in me that to this very day, 20 years later, I can still play those three pieces. I stood up from the piano, nearly in tears, and knew with absolute certainty that I would never, ever, ever be able to do that again. (For you piano aficionados: Mozart, Sonata in a, K. 310: Allegro maestoso; Schubert, Impromptu No. 2 in E-flat, Op. 90; Debussy, Jardins sous la pluie from Estampes.)

I came home from the competition and half-heartedly continued my piano lessons while throwing myself into the study of my secondary instrument: viola. And I never looked back.

There were brief times during my education when I entertained the possibility of doing something non-musical with my life. I seriously considered going to medical school to become a forensic pathologist -- this was before CSI (no lie here: I wanted to be a doctor without having to deal with any living people) -- and even went so far as to shadow a few pathologists in high school and take all the science prerequisites. I also thought about joining the family business and going to pharmacy school, and spent about 15 minutes thinking about law school and politics, but my heart was never in any of it. I just wanted to play. Lucky for me, it's what I still get to do.

This brings me to Lara's question:

2. "Why did you choose the viola?"

Another good one! And it comes with a lengthy explanation. The orchestra world is full of jokes about one instrument or another, but none are more maligned than the viola. (How do you tell when a violist is playing out of tune? The bow is moving.)(Just for you, Lara: Why was the soprano standing in the rain? Because she couldn't find the key and didn't know when to come in.) Apparently, violinists who can't hack it switch instruments and suddenly their superior violin training makes them the top of the heap in the viola section.

In my experience I have not found this to be true. In fact, in both of my current orchestras, the viola sections are the strongest of the strings but that's beside the point. I was NEVER a violinist. I wear this badge with great pride. I am a viola purist, and a rarity in my field.

I chose the instrument for one reason, and one reason only: at the strings meeting in fourth grade where we signed up to start in the fall, the piece the teacher played to demonstrate the viola was the theme to Star Wars. I went to the meeting sure I was going to play the cello. I actually signed up for the cello, rented the instrument and everything. But I could not get that Star Wars theme out of my head, and finally, a few days before school started, I called the teacher and switched over.

I LOVED it. From the very first day. And, especially based on my ill-fated experience at the piano competition, it was a fantastic musical choice for me, because there have been a grand total of, like, six concerti ever composed for the viola. And I'm really just fine with that because what I love more than anything else is the orchestral ensemble experience. So that's what I do. And when I don't have little kids running around any more, I'll probably go back to teaching violin and viola lessons (the technique is truly just about the same, so I can play a violin if, I don't know, held at gunpoint).

I've about reached my word limit for the night, but I'll end with DeNae's thought-provoking question:

3. "If you weren't a violist, what would you do with all the anchovies? Please answer in complete sentences, and include at least one reference to Hairspray."

Well, DeNae, I had a hard time deciding if you were referring to the anchovy arthroplasty procedures I will undoubtedly need on my thumbs after years and years of viola playing, or the viola part of Daniel Catan's opera, Salsipuedes, A Tale of Love, War and Anchovies. But because I know you, like good old Edna Turnblad for her beloved Tracy, only have my best interests at heart, I am absolutely certain that you are concerned about my joints. And you're probably right. If I weren't a violist, I wouldn't actually need any anchovies. But aren't we glad such technically advanced procedures are available, and that I will be able to preserve the opposability of my thumbs after all? (HA!)

More questions answered tomorrow . . . I promise I'll get more than three done!

A Shameless Plug

I've got a new gig. It's here:

I'll be posting at Mormon Mommy Blogs on a regular basis. I must admit, I feel pretty special. Mormon Mommy Blogs is where all the cool kids hang out. You should hang out there, too. It's a great place to go to find bloggers with whom you share common interests, because all the blogs listed on the site are arranged by category. Looking for some ways to use all that food storage you bought? There's a category for that.

Need some ideas for managing your money? There's a category for that, too.

Dealing with infertility? There's a group for that.

Looking for music, art, or photograpy? There's a category for that.

Are you a man? There's even a category for that.

And you can rest assured that the content of all the blogs listed on MMB will not offend -- unless you're offended by pictures of me (or any other woman out there) looking like a booger woman. Or by stories that involve children and poop. Or by frank, open discussions (every Wednesday) about subjects and issues that affect us all.

This website is run by two of my favorite bloggers:

The Motherboard, of Crazyland

and

MomBabe, of The Bingham Diaries

You should check them out. They're awesome.

They're awesome for a number of reasons. Of course, they picked me to be a contributor on MMB. That has to count for something, right?

And they work hard to keep us all interested and on our toes.

Best of all? I get to meet them here:

They, these two amazing women, are organizing the Casual Blogger Conference, an event that I wouldn't miss for the world.

And also, they're giving me a microphone and an audience. Dangerous. So . . . come! Meet me in real life! (You may be disappointed. I'm just saying. I mean, I've been known to run off at the mouth. Luckily, my sister will be there, too, just in case I need someone to, um, help me rein it in.)

Will you be there? Tell me, so I can be even MORE excited about going!

A Really, Really Great (True) Love Story and It Isn't Even Mine. And also some random stuff.

Last week was busy. My calendar is full in September. And October. And then I have this little thing written on November 4, and NOTHING else. 8 more weeks! I can see the light!

Okay. So last week was busy because it was a symphony week . . . rehearsal, rehearsal, rehearsal, concert, concert. Not terrible, but only because it only happens six times a year.

We begin every season with a pops concert -- last year, all Cole Porter; two years ago, Gershwin; three years ago, I think it was Broadway. Fun stuff, especially if you're old enough to remember who Cole Porter was without watching De-Lovely.

This year, the program was all Irving Berlin. Generally, I don't love playing these concerts because the viola parts are, um, less than challenging, unless you're incapable of feeling off-beats. But we always have great singers, and the songs are familiar, and the audience leaves happy, so I usually come out of it with some degree of satisfaction as well. And a paycheck. Which helps.

Can I just say that I had no idea Irving Berlin wrote so much music? Seriously. We have him to thank for such perennial classics as "White Christmas" and "God Bless America". But there's so, so, so much more! I did some research and I think I have a retroactive crush on a man who died at the ripe old age of 101 -- just as I was entering puberty.

How could you not love a man who, when his sweetheart was disowned by her Catholic telegraph magnate father for marrying a Jewish immigrant upstart with no background, signed over the rights to the song he knew would be a sure hit? Because that's exactly what he did. He wrote "Always" when they fell in love. And all royalties from that song, played in a million different places a million different times, went to her as well. He made sure that even if something happened to him, or their union did not last they way they thought it would, she would not be left without means because she decided to marry him.

He wrote "Blue Skies" (smilin' at me . . . you know this one!) to celebrate the birth of their first child. Read the words. You'll love the song more now that you know why he wrote it. Same goes for "Always". I was the first to fall when CPod and I first met, but if it had been the other way around, he couldn't have missed with lyrics like those.

Irving Berlin died in 1989. He was 101. His wife died the year before. They were married for 63 years -- inseparable until the very end. That, my friends, is a love story.

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In other news, my refrigerator fried my hairdryer tonight. Lately, the water dispenser in our refrigerator keeps freezing up. And the only way to get the water moving again is to open the freezer door and heat the panel up with a hairdryer. It takes a while, so I pulled up a chair. I was talking with CPod while he leaned on the counter and then all of a sudden I was holding a blowtorch. I guess I should count my blessings. I could have been actually drying my hair when the appliance in question decided to melt down. Frizzy, curly hair I'm okay with. Fried? Not so much.

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I'm nesting. Intensely.

Right now, my living room looks like a tornado hit the little girls' section of a children's clothing store and dumped it's entire contents in front of the fireplace. I'm sorting all the clothes given to me by my sister (I mean loaned) and another friend and, of course, the things I've purchased.

I have to say, I've never before bought tights for anyone but myself. It's a brave new world, friends. A brave new world.

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Does anyone know how to get little boys to AIM? Please don't say Cheerios. You'd be surprised how my children define "edible". I think if I have to wipe a puddle of pee off of the floor or the little place on the side of the toilet where urine likes to collect ONE MORE TIME I am going to buy a really huge litter box for the back porch. Yes, CPod does the toilets. But not hourly. Maybe what I need is one of those little sign-in sheets you see in fast food restaurant bathrooms: initial here when you've inspected the toilet. Except the only initials would be mine, scrawled in ever-bolder and angrier strokes as the day wore on.

One day last week I caught ConMan "aiming" with his non-dominant right hand while holding a tootsie pop with his left. Really? I mean, get your priorities in order, son.

I think I'm going to start locking the door to my bathroom (maybe even to CPod) lest the throne in there should be defiled in the same heinous manner.

Indeed, something must remain sacred.

I'm outnumbered -- not that there's anything wrong with that

This is one of those weeks when I miss bedtime 6 out of 7 nights. Except not really because of the snow, but please, let me have my pity party. I have a symphony concert tomorrow night, so I spent this evening rehearsing a dozen or so arias in the orchestra with some very talented operatic soloists.

(I haven't been to the opera in so many years that I had forgotten what it's all about. And I'm going to force CPod to take me again sometime soon. When I was at BYU, the opera department put on La Boheme, which is fantastic, and also a good one to start with if you're an opera novice. Ever the positive thinker, I bought two tickets, even though I didn't yet have a date, and had not yet met CPod. So then we started dating and I was not going to miss the opera -- do not be mistaken. First date: hockey game. Second date: Nutty Putty Cave, and I had to pee behind a bush with my future husband about 20 yards away. Third date: yep, you guessed it. La Boheme. That's when the compromises began.)

One of the soloists induced an extreme case of the eye rolls in me when I saw him sitting in the audience. He actually had a silk scarf around his neck, and perfect glossy helmet hair, and this haughty plastic face . . . if you discount the whole Pavarotti-esque contingent of opera singers, this guy was the epitome of the "primo uomo" (maybe I'll coin a phrase here . . . how about mandiva? prima donny? suggestions, please).

And then he came on stage. I was absolutely captivated. His diction was flawless, the tone quality of his voice was luscious, and I could tell that every gesture, every look, every note was fine tuned and honed to perfection so that he could take those of us listening to a different place. He was theatrical without being overly so; he was sincere and believable and beyond passionate. I loved it. (You should give it a shot. If an LA prostitute can get it enough to sob through the whole thing, you can, too.)

I started to think about how proud his mama must be. I mean, every time she watches her baby perform, she doesn't just see someone who is really great at his job. She sees someone who has found something to do with his life that he loves. Shouldn't we all be that lucky?

That led me to thinking about how great it is to be a mother of boys. I must confess, I have been known to lament the overload of testosterone in our little house. I would be lying if I didn't tell you that I glance longingly at the little girl clothes as I pass them on the way to the blue jeans and t-shirts department.

There are some definite peculiarities to mothering boys, and many of them are significantly less than pleasant: you will NEVER have a clean bathroom again. Ever. You will become intimately acquainted, in a clinical way, with parts of the anatomy you don't actually have yourself, and will be completely comfortable discussing these parts and their functions in every day conversation. You will learn to tolerate Legos, even though the bottoms of your feet will be eternally scarred by tiny circles and sharp corners.

You will learn that silence is NEVER golden, because it usually means someone is doing something they shouldn't be doing. You find yourself actually laughing at jokes and real-life incidents involving boogers, snot, hurl, farts, burps and poop. (That's not such a stretch for the girl whose claim to fame was belching the alphabet all the way through and then to Q again.) And you even get good at tuning out at the constant sparring for dominance that occupies nearly every waking moment of little boys' lives.

But it's not all bad. I have recently discovered some really great things about mothering boys. For example, as long as both parents are present when we are out of the house, and if I time things just right when CPod's not around, I might never, ever have take one of my kids into a public restroom again. Doesn't that sound fantastic?

No one has messed with my fingernail polish. At least, not yet.

The best part, though, is that these boys love me. No one brings out the tenderness in rough and tumble little bundles of energy like Mommy. They are reminded daily by their daddy that mommies are different than daddies -- that daddies are for wrestling, but mommies are for hugs. I get to set the standard of femininity for these guys -- that's actually a little sad -- and help them determine the characteristics they want to look for when they grow up and get married. (Like Mommy, or not like Mommy? Reality here -- I think that one could go either way!)

Secretly, I think I might love all the gross parts, too. Except for the dirty bathrooms. I will never love that. It's such an integral part of boyness -- dirty fingernails, boogers wiped on the wall/table/mommy's bum/MayDay's arm, poop jokes, truck noises and all. Hopefully, one day they will call me blessed, because blessed is exactly how I feel when I think about these three beautiful, sweet hoodlums -- especially when they are sleeping.

You think that was random? You should try this one.

Sorry about the bloggy break, KristinaP. It's nice to know I was missed . . . I was sick for four days, and then had to spend all available waking hours recovering from my family housekeeping department absence. Please don't be too disappointed with this post, because it's nothing special!

First off, I must say that I have outdone myself, so let's get the bragging out of the way. Some of you may remember my Birthday Cake Evolution post. For the twins' birthday, I made them each their own cake, and they were very specific about what they wanted. ConMan wanted "a rockin' kitar" and G-Dog wanted a volcano. Here is what we ended up with:



Here is where I would insert pictures of the actual twins from said birthday celebration, but the only picture I have in which, A. all parties are looking at the camera and B. all parties have their eyes open, is one of me, G-Dog and Sam, one of MommyJ's twins.

For their birthday, we got them Super Mario Galaxy for the Wii. We are in love with this game. For a girl who grew up playing the original Nintendo, Mario has come a long way, baby. It has become our new playtime activity to all work on conquering a level together -- I have been truly impressed by the creativity and applicability of the solutions posited by such video game novices.

And, because I can, and because it makes my heart glad to think that maybe my kids have inherited even a little bit of my musical ability, here is my budding virtuoso:


And some of you will know why this is funny. The rest of you will not. Sorry.


I don't usually post early in the morning, because, let's be honest, I'm never awake. And if I am awake, I'm on the treadmill. Or cleaning up throw-up. I would call those two things equally fun reasons to be out of bed at 6 AM. This morning, G-Dog woke up to use the bathroom at 5 AM. I heard CPod get up, and then I, of course, rolled over and went back to sleep. 15 minutes later, I woke up to an empty spot next to me in bed. I wandered around the house until I found CPod in the garage wearing his Carrhart overalls (did you know you can get overalls in supertall sizes? If I didn't think he'd kill me, I'd publish a photo, because it is seriously something to behold.) working on his new Jeep. New, as in 1998 and a piece of crap. But I digress.

So he couldn't sleep. And I couldn't either. Back upstairs, I noticed a weird flashing light on the wall, and when I discovered it was my netbook (the coolest thing I never knew I needed, but totally did), I could not resist the siren call of internet-based positive reinforcement so here I am, and have been, for the past hour.

As I lay here in my bed, the silence is randomly punctuated by the Tim Allen voice of ConMan's Buzz Lightyear toy, which must be in bed with him, saying, "To infinity. And beyond!" ConMan will be up shortly . . . he's our early riser, and the talking toy won't help matters.

After I published the last random post, MommyJ told me I must have really been on one when I wrote it. What? I said. The title, she said. It was a little over the top. I was incredulous. Didn't you get the allusion? I said. Nooooo . . . what are you talking about? I thought it was pretty clear, but maybe it wasn't. Ten points to anyone who got the early 1990s Saturday Night Live reference. Speaking of SNL . . .

Here is a brief list of things that I don't feel guilty about, but probably should:

1. I frequently use all the hot water. All of it. Do you remember that episode of Seinfeld where Kramer does everything in the shower? That would be me, if I could get away with it. It is one of the singular pleasures of my life to bathe in hot water -- steaming, scalding, invigorating, relaxing hot water. I am definitely a 21st century girl.

2. That first sip of ice cold Coca-Cola. Enough said.

3. American Idol. Not even a little bit.

4. Saturday Night Live. I can't believe MommyJ didn't get the reference. I mean, she was the one who would sneak back downstairs after everyone else was sleeping to watch it with me when we were growing up.

5. Occasional colorful language. I limit myself to epithets that are not considered to be profanity in Australia. CPod served his mission in Sydney, and on his first Sunday, he was seriously disturbed to hear the EQ President say, from the pulpit, "What the hell is up with home teaching?"

So we're off to a family service project today in South Carolina . . . CPod is in the shower, and I'm now sharing my bed with the other members of the Red Headed League. (Another allusion . . . not television. Maybe I'm not as good at this as I thought.) I'll report later!

Am I famous?

Business first: a brief explanation for my radio silence of the past week. My husband's profession requires him to re-educate himself each year in order to renew his license. This gives us the opportunity to travel a little and write it off as a business expense. Yay!

My wonderful baby brother and his terrifically loving and patient new wife kept our kids for the weekend. (My mom says I may have singlehandedly convinced them to wait many, many years to have children of their own. Really? I hope not!)

We met our best friends from graduate school, who live in Idaho, in Austin, Texas. What a fabulous weekend! I slept. And slept some more. And ate really great food. Without having to feed it to anyone else, or keep anyone else from throwing it at a tablemate, or clean up what spilled on the floor. CPod went to class, and found a six pack of Henry Weinhard's Root Beer at a grocery store. Seriously, that's all he needed.

(I am willing to trade Cheerwine for Henry Weinhards, all of you who live out west. We can't get it out here, and you've probably never had Cheerwine, but it's the drink of the gods. For Christmas about 5 years ago, I actually ordered CPod some Weinhard's root beer from California. The shipping cost more than the root beer. But it's sooooooo good!)

My friend and I shopped and laughed and tried really hard to find our very own sisterhood of the travelling pants, with no luck. She had her youngest child with her, an adorable little 4-month-old angel who looks so much like his oldest brother that I experienced serious deja vu several times while we were together. His big brother, who is now 10, was the first baby I ever loved, and he will forever have a special place in my heart, so it was fun to relive that a little and bond with the smaller version. All in all, it was a wonderfully rejuvenating weekend.

And now . . . on to what this post was supposed to be about in the first place.

Last year, our digital camera died. Or, rather, it became unreliable. It still worked on occasion, but never on the occasions when I needed it. We invested in a newer, smaller, cooler camera and set the old one aside.

Last week, on the twins' birthday, I ran across the old camera. Since I hadn't thought about it in months, I gave it to G-Dog and ConMan. It was their favorite birthday present. (Of course it was. Because I didn't have to pay for it.)

Little did I know what I was getting myself into. Suddenly, I have a great deal of sympathy for Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, because everywhere I go, I am followed by a gaggle of loud, intrusive, demanding photographers. The only things they haven't captured are those that I generally (try to) do by myself in the bathroom. Or any nudity (mine or theirs). But give them time. I'm sure the thought will occur to them eventually.

My little personal papparazzi have documented me making dinner, dusting the living room, sitting on the couch with my kids, doing laundry, playing games, and bludging. They have taken pictures of our carpet and close-up views of our couch and chair upholstery; they have zoomed in on our chef at the Japanese steakhouse we went to on their birthday; they have blinded each other with the flash and gotten up close and personal with nose hair; and they have taken many, many, many pictures of the television. Because those shows NEED to be documented for posterity.

The following is a very select sampling of the photographic prowess of my progeny. Consider yourselves the VIPs invited to the exhibition preview, because I'm certain that high-end galleries and snooty art critics are in our future. A warning: there are some very unattractive pictures of me in this lot. VERY. But I am that willing to sacrifice my dignity so you, dear readers, can have a laugh. Enjoy.

We'll start with a series I like to call Polyptych of Mommy Booty:

Whatever

Finger Toes
(I know these toes belong to G-Dog. Unlike CPod and G-Dog, MayDay, ConMan and I all have toes like hobbits, not fingers.)

Restaurant of Blinding Lights

WikiSticks on Blankie

Piggy Shine

Brother Behind Glass

She Moves Too Fast

Transformer Family Portrait
(L-R: Optimus Prime, Jazz, BumbleBee)

Wheelbarrow in Mulch
(The genius of this photo is that somehow, the perspective is way off. I mean, that wheelbarrow is only 8 feet away, but it looks like it's two stories down. I'm still not sure how they did it.)

Epiphany

I spent my seventeenth summer playing viola at a world-renowned music festival. Each day was filled with practices and performances, theory lessons and master classes, orchestras, opera pits, string quartets, private practices and sectionals.

I toted my viola and a foldable wire music stand all through the mountains for group rehearsals, and, when it came time to practice on my own, in search of a vacant tin-roofed cabin so I could add my strains of Bloch and Schubert to the symphony of sound carried on the breeze. The hills rang from Reveille to Taps, and the almost daily thunderstorms did little to dampen the song.

That summer I dyed my hair a rich, dark auburn (because I could), I ate only carrots and peanut butter (because they were the only edible things at the dining hall), and I had a crush on Glen Cortese (look him up . . . and don't hold the beard against me).

It's not what you think. It was totally unrequited and I was okay with that -- in fact, I would have been surprised if he had known my full name. You see, Dr. Cortese was my conductor. I arrived at rehearsals early just for the chance to say hello before we began to play. I listened intently to every word he said and gleaned every possible scrap of musical wisdom from his erudite musings about form. I nodded in agreement to every suggestion of dynamic change and nearly applauded his brilliant analysis of the composer's intent. I worked hard to hold onto first chair not only so I could lead my section, but so I could stay near Dr. Cortese.

And this is why I was so absolutely mortified the first time we read through Dvorak's Symphony No. 7 in d Minor. I had always loved Dvorak -- he was sassy, and he wrote fantastic viola parts -- and the first two movements were great fun to play -- but the third movement, the Scherzo, hit me with something I had never before felt.

My musical experiences thus far had been varied, and I certainly had pieces I loved that evoked intense emotional responses. This piece was different. It filled me up from the heart out and before we were 20 measures in, I was openly weeping -- nose running, eyes tearing, chest heaving, desperately trying not to audibly sob during the quiet parts. It was cathartic -- and still is, every time I listen to it. I don't know if Dr. Cortese even noticed -- then, I prayed he hadn't -- but it didn't matter. My crush on my conductor faded, but the song I discovered under his tutelage became the background music of my life.

Fastforward 15 years. A friend asks to borrow my recording of the Dvorak 8, which is on the same CD as the 7th. On the way to a rehearsal where she will also be I slip the disk into the player in the car and listen. It's so familiar, so lovely, so much still my favorite -- and then the Scherzo. Still, tears sting my eyes as the lush melodies wash over me. I feel like someone has unexpectedly dumped out my bucket of soul and I struggle to clean up the spill. My throat tightens, and I wonder -- why this piece? I listen over and over and over, and then I see -- it is me.

The first time you hear it, it's lovely, but something harsh and contrary bubbles under the surface, struggling to be heard over the mainstream melody above. It changes rapidly back and forth between duple and triple time, an internal battle so at odds that at times they are expressed simultaneously and you can't figure out which one is winning. It is a study in contrasts: the Slovak peasant melodies over skillfully composed counters; the serene calm of wind solos and the intense bombast of the brass choir; the gritty low open strings hit so hard you can hear the sticks, then exultant soaring upper registers that are so pure they seem to resonate with the very elements.

The more you listen and discover the depth and complication of the melody and counterpoint, the more unsettling it becomes. Dark but still playful, turbulent, complicated, disarmingly brash, sometimes too harsh for the average listener, thoroughly and engagingly composed, but unsettling -- this is the Scherzo.

This is me. We are alike: simple folk songs layered over complicated rhythms, struggling within to balance a complex structure. More than we were before being refined at the hands of a skilled creator and master. Straining upwards, ever upwards, to find that perfect resonant place where everything works in perfect harmony. Rough edges waiting -- wanting -- to be polished.

Polish me.

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(I wrote this last year as a response to a writing prompt: if you were a piece of music, what would you be? It has been nagging at the edges of my consciousness ever since and I can't usually get rid of the nagging until I finish a piece. After some fine tuning and tweaking, this is the reincarnation. You're all going to think I'm loony after you read it, but so be it. Criticism is not just welcome on this post . . . it's encouraged. After all, I'm here, to a degree, to become better at my craft.)

And I'll put the same question to you, dear readers: if you were a piece of music, what would you be?

The Return of Christmas Spirit

'Tis the season to make music -- or at least, that's how it seems. Today, I played my first of 5 gigs this Christmas. I have the great privilege of playing the viola in several symphonies and other groups. And this afternoon, I participated in a performance of Handel's Messiah.

I'll be completely honest: I was not really looking forward to it. Most gigs pay, but today's didn't. That sounds really selfish, but I said I'd be honest. I had to play violin instead of viola. And I will play in three more performances of this oratorio over the next couple of weeks. I just plain didn't want to do it.

Stay with me here. I've been feeling a lack of Christmas spirit lately. No one has any money, so any talk about gifts carries an implied undercurrent of stress about how to finance said tokens of love and appreciation. And everyone has crappy things happening to them. So how are we supposed to feel good will toward men (in the non-gender-specific sense of the word) when men don't exactly seem to feel good will toward you?

Then, a few weeks ago, a friend of mine, Melissa over at Moments that Matter, posted an entry about music. Her post prompted me to think about the music I love -- because there is just so much -- and I finally got around to Christmas music. It's that time of year, right? I keep Michael McLean's Forgotten Carols in my car year round because it speaks for my heart. "He Was Here" is about the shepherd who slept through the part with the angels and missed the opportunity to adore the Christ child, and it brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it because of this line:

"I know that as the world moves on through time
There will be more stories just like mine
About the souls who've chosen to believe
In something that they never got to see."

So. The Christmas spiritometer began to rise a little. I kept the CD handy, and started listening with my kids during afternoon clean-up time, when we (read: I) pick up toys and tidy the living room before I turn on a show to occupy them while I cook dinner.

One random day, just like all the other days, I started yelling at the kids to participate in cleaning up the mess they helped make. I was getting really frustrated because they were just not listening. At all. And just as I reached the pinnacle of angriness, I heard another of these carols in the background. It was Joseph's song, when he sings, "I was not his father, he was mine."

Deep breath. I stopped yelling and had this total paradigm-shifting moment. I had this vision of Joseph and Mary parenting a toddler Jesus. Did Mary have to stop him from touching a hot pot? Did Joseph have to reprimand him for being careless with tools? I expect they didn't, but it doesn't matter, because whatever their precious and perfect son did, they saw him with an eternal perspective. They saw him as a child of God.

I know that my little boys are not going to grow up to be anything that will even approach the greatness of our Savior. But they do have one essential characteristic in common with their elder brother: they, too, are children of God. I think if we really saw our children (or, really, anyone) for what they are, what they can become -- we would treat them differently. I bet Mary and Joseph didn't yell at their little ones. Or even at each other.

Yesterday, we drove up into the mountains where there are farms that grow Fraser Firs. We hiked around on the mountain in the cold and finally found our perfect Christmas tree. The nice workers cut it down for us with a chainsaw (always exciting for little boys) and baled it up (also exciting!) and we brought it home. Tonight, the boys "helped" us put on the lights. Add a little more Christmas spirit to the meter.

Jump back to today. I went. I played. And as I listened to the words of that most inspired of compositions, taken wholly from scriptural texts, set to what must be the most glorious music ever composed, I felt a resurgence of the spirit I had been lacking.

We celebrate because we have so many blessings -- even in the worst of circumstances, we have the greatest of blessings. We give gifts to one another in semblance of the greatest of all gifts ever given: a sacrifice beyond our comprehension that makes it possible for us to live in the presence of God forever.

Christmas Spirit is officially back.

Birthday Cake Evolution

So these are the birthday cakes I decorated for the twins' first birthday. No big deal -- easy for them to demolish, and they were too young to really understand fancy design elements on a cake anyway. (Lil' Maa-Maa's first cake looked just like these except for the initial.)


The next year, I branched out a little and made pick-up trucks for the twinlets. I wasn't thinking about Mater from Cars when I made them, but as soon as he saw his cake, ConMan yelled, "Mater!" and so that's what it was.


This year, I really got creative. The boys wanted a dragon cake, so I gave them a dragon cake. I know, I've got mad skills, right? Well, I do, but only with help. Check out Family Fun Magazine for some more cool cake ideas. It's a lot easier than it looks.


And now, for the piece de resistance (it's killing me that I don't know how to put an accent grave on the 1st "e" of "piece") . . . Lil' Maa-Maa's second birthday cake. I even made my own frosting. I'm so impressed with myself!