first one must civilize a space to play your violin with grace

    BEFORE:

AFTER!

BEFORE:

AFTER!

 On vacation, the Beckmanns make their own food every morning

And why this butter churn has an outhouse painted on the front, I will never know or guess.

and Paul reads by the fire

Our cabin had a back porch, where we read and swing and eat.

Pa Beckmann reads to us from a humorous book on Latin declensions. 

The reflection of yellow

Sometimes Paul and I fall asleep reading.  One day I was perusing a book I borrowed from Amy, so I could return it, and as I drifted off, just piled my book right on top of Paul's on the nightstand.  In the morning, the sun revealed our contrast of interest:

Sometimes our books end up next to each other in eye-catching sequence; they're affected by strange- juxtaposition- magnetism.  Yes, sometimes we are on VERY different pages.

Last night we had the Myers over for dinner (almost all of them) and Violet was entertained by our bird call book for quite some time.  On the menu:

Honeybaked Ham
Caramalized roasted sweet potatoes
Corn souffle
Roasted broccoli with garlic, shallots, and parmesan

Ice cream!

It was great to have everyone over, to finally be able to return with thanks the favor of hospitality we have enjoyed so often for years and years at the Myers house on Sunday afternoons.

Ma Myers brought me a pick of the firstfruits of her garden, which was incredibly sweet:

The Myers garden always reminds me of a little bit of Garrison Keillor's "Talkin Harvest Time Blues" song, especially the Chorus:

CHORUS

Harvest time (Break out the canning jars!)

Harvest time (Man the pressure cooker!)

Harvest time (You have to take zucchini—we’re related!)

Harvest time (Now THIS is a tomato!)

In other news, I've kind of been working on this idea of a book; it's not quite solid in its form yet. This was the first book whose cover I turned completely inside out, because it was so ugly, and I forget why else.  Dear The Author of "With Forks and Hope": I'm enjoying your book very much.  For art.

And finally, if the Art of War and the Art of Homemaking weren't enough to cover the whole spectrum of the universe: 

cello lessons

 April 2, 2007

Dr. Stroud said some really helpful things to me today in my cello lesson about the struggle with perfectionism, that it can stand in the way of enjoying what you have accomplished.  It's a kind of "nothing will ever be good enough" (read: because I deserve better, because nobody will understand my genius, because I will be casting pearls before swine.) He said you have to work through it.  Giving up is a kind of prideful hopelessness in this case.  "I'll never amount to the greatness I think I possess" and you give up and say I guess I'll be HOPELESS and FEEL SPECIAL.  I laughed in my gut with Dr. Stroud about this phrase because it directly relates to the pride in many areas of my being, and in just this precise shade, too.  We talked a little more about pride, misplaced pride AND misplaced humility, and "sin" whose original meaning meant "blockage" (I assume from God) (and I assume he means "from getting on to the next thing in one's life".

May 12, 2009

I've realized I perhaps have not been enjoying the things I have accomplished, and that I feel like hiding the fact that I have a master's degree.  It's definitely not something I can afford to flaunt, for sure, but I think I have also been avoiding listening to my recital recording... should I throw it out because it's overly honest?   It may not be a pinnacle of acheivement, I may not have achieved the bestest of anything, anything at all, but in this process, I have learned how to practice the cello, how to start to begin to know how to play the cello, how to respond to music and movement, and also, the intricate give and take of a cello with a piano.   I think that my self criticism should not be mistaken for humility, but pride.

And now, having figured that out, on to thankfulness and the humility of learning again. 

Dear Diary,                                                     7/17/07

Today Paul one upped my story about goldfinches-- something about feeding Hebrew-speaking parrots on Cayman.  What the heck...

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One time I spent a free evening reading a book of W.H. Auden poetry on the walking bridge, which also happeend to be the night of the Wine over Water festival.  I noted that I saw those who were enjoying the wine, and those who were holding the "wine bibbers are hellbound" signs.  The barbershoppe quartet groups in their matching top hats, the long haired hippis on the street corner. And they were quite at odds.

However, I had an experience that occurred in a group of three, which must mean that it was meant to be a story. I'd like it to be a poignant poem one day, but it barely may qualify as a story if I tell it.  How can I communicate how the third event was like a song, a point, the punchline, the culmination?  I can be a little sensitive to how people regard poetry; there are some very valid reasons for not liking it, especially when it falls into the hands of people who like to make it "precious" instead of letting it speak for itself; but when a moment is captured in a package of wit and brevity, that is the kind of poetry that I enjoy immensely, especially on the walking bridge, at a wine tasting festival.  (to which I had not paid admission, or tasted) ( I was a bystander. sitter.)

Three people interrupted my poetry reading in succession.  A man stopped by and said dismissively, oh, I dont 'do' much poetry... i'm sure I remember something from highschool.  ... The cold shoulder of one who remembers something from when he was obligatorily exposed to poetry one time in order to get a 'well rounded' education.

The second visitation was by a group of girls.  They stopped and said, Poetry!  oh yeah! We have to do some of that too... it's a humanities class... Petrarch... Neruda... I didn't like that one as much...   The fact that they said "we have to do some of that too" put me off a little... doesn't anyone assume one reads poetry for enjoyment? sharpening?  Is poetry always to be an "assignment", a punishment?

The third and final scene: a man, with  a glass of wine in his hand, saw me reading Auden and stopped to ask "are you required or are you reading for the like?" and when I said for the like, he offered me his glass of wine.