Finding God in Hell

Last weekend, I attended the fiddle event that I have been hearing about since long before I ever held a fiddle in my own hands: Fiddle Hell. Organized by the Reiner Family, Fiddle Hell consists of three days of fiddle workshops, jams, and concerts at the Concord Inn in styles ranging from Bluegrass to Cape Breton. Well over one hundred fiddlers with a wide range of levels were in attendance. Over the three days, one only stops fiddling for the essentials: food, bathroom, and perhaps a little sleep.

I attended a Sufi workshop last year about turning, a prayerful practice of the whirling dervishes. We spun all day, with a few breaks for instruction and meditation. Spin until the whole world goes away and all that is left is your center--the Divine that lives within you. Fiddle Hell was comparable. You fiddle until the whole world goes away and all that is left is the feel of the bow in your hands and music pouring over you...voila, all that was left was the same Divine presence that we had whittled the world down to by turning at the Sufi workshop.

On the second night of fiddle hell, my friend and I stumbled upon a serious Irish session in the Inn's pub. The energy pulsed through the walls and spilled out into the bland hallway of the hotel. We found a place next to a drunk-looking older fiddler, took out our fiddles, and I looked on with awe at a picture of what Irish fiddling could be. I breathed it in and decided that one day I will be good enough to participate in such a session.

After several tunes, I picked up my fiddle and wandered across the hallway. I could already hear the slow lull of a waltz reaching out towards the Irish jigs, like two patterns of waves that meet and transform one another. I followed the sound of the waltz and entered a tiny room, which seemed to cradle its five inhabitants with a deep crimson wallpaper. I inched in and began playing along to "Planxty Irwin." Here was my community, at least for the next two hours. I recognized a middle-aged woman sitting across from me; I had sat next to her at a jam months ago at the Harry Smith Frolic. I was playing mandolin at the Frolic and remember watching her, mesmerized with a hint of jealousy, wishing that I could play fiddle too. Suddenly, I felt that in this little room, covered in a blanket of red, fiddling alongside the happiest and calmest of musicians, I was filled to the brim with all the joys one could ever want from life.