Playing fiddle has come with a new way of life that puts me in this state all the time--without ever needing to physically go very far. In part, it is the joy of playing music in community that gives the feeling of being as acutely alive as when one travels. It is also the people one meets, and the adventures that one embarks on for the sake of playing music in community.
When Nemo struck yesterday, and Governor Patrick banned transportation, I set out with skis, headlamp, and an Adirondack pack basket containing fiddle, bread, and cheese, for a house session with friends in Beverly. Over the course of the 2.7 mile trek I crossed paths with old friends, shared moral support with a new Nigerian friend as we crossed the Beverly bridge together, and dodged many snowplows, while my fiddle somehow stayed in tune. On one dark Beverly side street, I could make out a lone figure shoveling through the falling snow. "Hi Miss Quayle," I heard the familiar voice of one of my students say. He gave me a knowing grin from under the bright orange hood of his parka: "I saw the fiddle and knew it must be you."
At the session, we shared Indian food, plum gin, and many Irish tunes. The wind rocketed me back across the Beverly bridge at about 11:00 pm, and the waves crashed about 3 feet from my skis on the Collins Cove bike path.
Just an hour ago, my younger cousin posted a photo of her plane about to depart for Bolivia. I remember those days fondly, but for now, I think I'll just travel at home with my fiddle.
