my flute, the closet, and i

found

I’ve been spending time in the walk-in-robe this week.

When I was a young musician, I selected the room with the most echoes and delighted in the sound of my playing which filled every nook and cranny. The reverberance of our wooden floored home covered my flaws, and even a cracked note sung out with beautiful deception.

My first flute lesson at the VCA was conducted in my teacher’s brick office. Not only was it carpeted, but he had added panels of foam and carpet to the walls to dull the sound. There was nowhere for the sound to bounce and rebound. When I played a note, it stopped dead at the end of my lip plate – even my best notes sounded woeful, brittle, and a far cry from the sonority I enjoyed at home. It was all cardboard and no angels, and that was a shock. I was and am terrified of flute lessons, and the combination of nerves and a damp room made for humbling times. Humbling and sometimes tearful times.

I began to realise that I would best improve my sound by playing in the rooms which showed every crack, waver, and weakness. I learnt that to sound beautiful in a concert space, there must be many ugly hours in a damp room smoothing out every angle of the note.

This is why I have selected the closet for my practice space. I have a tall stool in my cubby, and lean my back against the shelves of clothes with despicable flute posture. Technically there is no reason for me not to play in my wet lounge room, to indulge in the sound now that I am no longer playing seriously. But I am a creature of habit and conviction, and I don’t want the lies of my lounge.

Our dog Wolfgang is extraordinarily musical in the howling way, and perhaps we shouldn’t have named him after such a prolific composer. His over powering accompaniment to even my tone exercises is another motivation to hide amongst my clothes in the dingy wardrobe.

This week I pulled my pure silver flute from its case, and in my dead nook, played some cardboard notes. I’d been asked to play Christmas Carols in Sunday’s service, and this required my lip muscles to remember. I invariably choose Paganini’s 24 Caprices for practice, and long notes. On Thursday night I headed for the two hour rehearsal and blew out some Silent Night.

The muscles in my shoulders and neck began to ache early in the rehearsal. They only ever began to kick up a fuss when I got chronic fatigue syndrome. They ache right up into my head, and produce this dull endless headache on the right side. When I came home, I got my heat pack, and Ben gave me a tough massage, and applied Chinese Medicine heat patches. The next day, the pain is established and unrelenting. There will be more massages, and more heat patches, and then there will be the actual service which will flare up the discomfort even more. And all the while there is a never ending headache.

I look at my flute, and I hear my Paganini, and I want to play for hours. My love has not faded, it cannot fade.

Ten minutes is enough to set my muscles into pain. My love hasn’t faded, but my body has rejected this occupation. I feel deep emotions in my practice room, whenever I pick up my instrument, as I try to find the peace in my skills slipping away from me. As I try to understand the purpose that those years of practice played in my life.

I think about the idea that it isn’t so much a flute, but a life tool which taught me and developed me. It cannot be lost to me, when it shaped me. Perhaps it was the thing that taught me that slow, often depressing plodding is the only and best way forward. From dull repetition and dry days can come the most beautiful things.  

words for wednesday {page 8, silver lining}

 

“Man is fond of counting his troubles, but he does not count his joys. If he counted them up as he ought, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Yesterday was one of those bliss days, the rare ones where you are singing inside because you are overwhelmed with the good, all the good which is as clear daylight. Not only was I well enough to do the dishes and other chores, I was well enough to play my flute. My two month music drought ended, and I felt wildly happy not only to be able to play, but to be able to feel all the raw highs and lows that music expresses. I danced, and played, and enjoyed my yellow teacup, and walking through puddles in gumboots, and my dog and man’s cuddles. I even saw three elegant dolphins at the waterfront, which tells you what kind of a day it was. And I won’t have this euphoria every day, but it told me that there is so much good I have been overlooking. As my friend{who always says the best things} wrote me,

“So the silver lining is quite thick.”

 It always is quite thick, when I choose to have a look.

If you want some ecstatic music, try Tchaikovsky’s Hungarian Dance, the happiness begins part way through, but isn’t it so much better after some melancholy?

wonder

I was looking over some of my blogs from 2012, and one stood out to me.

pessimism & hope 

"I would love to begin a post one day by writing something like this:

Feeling well, and coping with life at the moment.

Apparently it is possible to feel that you are coping with life, I’ve heard of people who do, but I don’t think I’ve felt like that for a solid three years."

And because I would love to begin a post like and for it to be true, I will write it now.

Feeling well, and coping with life at the moment.

There, I said it. I meant it, I felt it.

If I couldn’t put into words how great the suffering of chronic illness feels, I can even less put into words the inexpressible amazement and joy of returning to health when you didn’t expect you would. There are simply not words in our vocabulary which do justice to these feelings. ‘Amazed’ has been so overused in such inappropriate circumstances that it falls far short.'Flabbergasted’ is getting closer but seems to imply an unsettled amazement – and quite frankly, I feel blissfully content. 

It is inarticulatable, and I suppose that is a beautiful thing. Perhaps only common things can be fully expressed in words. After all, there are so many things in life which can’t quite be captured or comprehended because of the huge complexity of our minds and bodies. When words fail, I think that images and music can often reach a little closer. 

Thomas Tallis lived a long time before us, in the 1500’s. His music is heart wrenchingly glorious and this piece seems to capture the unspeakable. This peice says ‘wonder’ to me. 

Spem in Alium

Wishing you a year filled with beautiful moments, smiles, increasing courage, comfort, relationships & well days.

Danielle x

Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles - Charlie Chaplin

empathy

This song completely sums up the grief of being sick, and being misunderstood...how many times I've listened to it crying out my pain. Have a listen:  

Unwell - Matchbox Twenty

I grew up as a healthy girl, and I didn’t intimately know anyone with a chronic illness. So, I’d never really thought about what is and isn’t helpful to say to sick people...I knew that people with broken arms get tired of explaining how it happened, and that it’s sweet to send ‘ get well’ cards to others – but what about someone who doesn’t have a story, and who won’t get well in a week or two? That takes a bit of thought. As I quickly realised from being the unwell person, it’s awfully easy to say things to sick people which aren’t really appropriate or loving.

Dee’s what-not-to-say guide: 

“Are you better yet?”

No. Stress-less. I promise I’ll let you know. I’ll host a party, update my facebook status in CAPITAL LETTERS, and return to full time study when I’m better. ‘Chronic’ means long-term– that means years or even decades. And it’s somewhat awkward replying ‘No, I’m not better yet’ – what a conversation and mood killer!

“You’re looking well.”

 Ha! Good I look it, because I sure don’t feel it- that’s my not very gracious internal reaction. It carries this sting: because you look good, I doubt how sick you say you are. “You’re looking pretty” would be so much better; even a sick person can look attractive.

“What did you do today?”

 Um, well....lay on the couch, then, nearly collapsed having my shower, then, lay on the couch and listened to music, then pined after my husband who’s at work. Yes, it’s probably not the best question, because it makes the sick person feel fairly boring and pathetic and lame. Replacement suggestion: what was best/worst moment in your week? Did you get any ‘well’ hours?

“You should do this/that...it’s not too tiring.”

 Sadly, things which don’t tire you out can be demolishing for a cfs/pots sufferer. Thankfully, I am making slow progress, but there was a time where walking to the letterbox was tough. Therefore, coming out for coffee or going to that concert is just unthinkable. Now days, I can do lovely things – go out for coffee e.t.c...But I will suffer for it afterwards and possibly during. So I might have to decline purely because of that.

I even have friends who have been told, “You should look for a job!” If only!

Complicated, you say....yes, it’s complicated because being unwell is not easy - and the way to love a suffering person is to first get inside their shoes, and then spur them on.

There are some absolutely precious people in my life who have understood in a way which shows incredible empathy and sensitivity. I treasure them because they are so rare. What a blessing!