Commit Random Acts of Music

Nearly every day, I walk past the Immaculate Conception Church on Derby St. Sometimes at night, I sit by their slender wooden statue of Mary, which sits atop a rock overlooking a goldfish pond, but I have never found my way inside the church's walls.

This morning I passed by Immaculate Conception on my way back from the local herbal shop, and the faint tones of the organ grasped onto the center of my heart, pulling it up through the crown of my head, into another plane. I paused and turned back towards the large wood-panaled doors. They looked closed, and why should they be open on a Saturday morning? I turned around again and began walking home, but another chord, just barely finding its way out of a cracked window in the sanctuary curled its delicate fingers around my inner being, pulling me back.

Again, I turned around and climbed the staircase looming before the door. It opened easily when I pulled, revealing an empty sanctuary with tinted light streaming through stained-glass windows, so well-kept, I felt as though its caregivers were extending their arms towards me, an invitation to worship. I wandered towards the front of the church so that I could look back into the organ's balcony. I didn't see a soul and, when I heard the sounds of chimes and opera singing accompanying the organ, I felt duped to think that some CD and a big speaker had lured me into a Catholic church.

Still I could not leave. I knelt before a pew in the back row. Prayers and tears flowed through me and mixed with the gentle organ tones in the expanse of empty space above. One song flowed into the next. After the third ended, there was a pause. The CD must be over, and God forbid, someone comes to change it and I have to explain myself. I stood up and heard a slight shifting above me. The faintest rustle of papers. I wandered again to the front of the sanctuary, this time at a different angle, and saw the back of a woman's head. She began to play, and when the angelic singing began once again, I noticed her jaw moving ever so slightly.

I returned to the pew and listened to the song before wandering back into the sunshine. Perhaps she will never know that her music was heard by another soul this Saturday morning. I thank her for the blessings carried in her music and pray that my own random acts of music--out at the lighthouse at night, in my yard, at local restaurants, or at the beach, may bring half that much joy to someone else.

If there is a God

There were more people than usual at the first neighborhood paella gathering of the spring. The living room and adjoining kitchen, warmed with wood flooring and dark wooden furniture, were packed with people, plates of food, and bottles of wine. I walked through the crowd, claustrophobic by the time I reached the counter, where I set down my jug of fresh apple cider. New and old friends mingled, laughing loudly, catching up on local news, and debriefing the previous night’s dance party as they downed their first glasses of wine. 

“Laura,” a warm voice called out of the chaos, “Get your fiddle. My guitar is downstairs.”

“No. Surely these people don’t want to be subjected to such a thing. It would….”

“Oh just get it. We can practice a song or two downstairs first.”

After a quick walk home to retrieve the fiddle, Mel and I sat down to our first attempt to play together. She looked up the fingering to a D chord and, now with a guitarist capable of all three chords in an Old Time G tune, nothing could stop this duo. Mel felt ready for an audience after a couple rough run-throughs. I wasn’t convinced, but we plodded up the stairs with guitar, fiddle, the salivating bulldog Foucault, and Mel’s coffee mug of frothy beer.

We re-entered the party and made our way to the back of the room. Perched on the narrow stairs leading up to Dinah’s loft, we could look down upon the whole party, and had just enough elbow room for bowing. When I began playing, I could hardly hear my own fiddle above the conversations.

After the first tune, a smattering of applause. After the second, a few warm compliments. After the third, Brian Donnelly, a legend in the Salem music scene, wandered over with a harmonica and set of jaw harps to join the band. After the eighth, a man with a French accent picked up some spoons and politely inquired what the rhythm was. Now our band was four musicians strong. Partly through the ninth tune, the dancers began to bounce and sway, and so did the floor. The tenth tune brought a move they were calling “the guerrilla” across the dance floor. Too may tunes to count flowed from our fingers and breath until we finished a rollicking rendition of “Cluck Old Hen” and Brian leaned over, crushing me with a hug.

“That was amazing!” he shouted. “If there is a God...” Brian’s proclamation soared over the merry din of the party “If there is a God above that brings good things, then He is music!”

Traveling at Home

Travel used to be a necessary part of life. We are so vividly alive when we travel--powerful interactions with strangers who seem to bring us just the message or lesson we need; not knowing where we are or what is next, but plunging ahead anyway; seeing new landscapes and encountering people with different life routines and thought patterns.

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.

An article I recently wrote for North Shore Art Throb about the Salem Old Time Jam:

http://www.nsartthrob.com/2012/12/old-time-jam/

The melancholic couch potato

I live as the happy fiddler and tend to remember and tell stories about all of the joy that I find myself immersed in as a novice fiddler. I would normally sit down today to write about my recent joyful adventures: the finale of Northern Roots in Brattleboro, where a fiddle concert ended with a curtain opening to reveal forty fiddlers of all ages beaming with joy as they played “My Cape Breton Home”; or the No-Superbowl potluck jam I attended at my neighbors’ home, where the evening ended with repeating “Coleman’s March” until it became more like a prayer than playing a tune.

But today I am going to go off the grid.

For the first time in months, perhaps since I acquired my fiddle seven months ago, I did not play any tunes all day. I did not even open the case. Furthermore, for a few moments, I allowed myself to not be happy. I allowed a deep, satisfying sort of melancholia to creep through my whole body, to the point that even my limbs, which are endlessly walking, running, hiking, and fidgeting, got so tired, I could do nothing but spread out across the couch for hours--a rare phenomenon in my world. I sank deep within myself, began to breathe more easily, and embraced all of the love and joy resting in my soul, but also the sadness and pain.

I tend to be joyful and move so vigorously through life that I don’t notice that I, like everyone else, may hold sadness and pain. A wise and beloved friend recently suggested that perhaps I avoid facing the challenging situations and inner fears that we need to face in order to grow. I tend to see it more in this light: I seek out joyful people and situations, so that I can foster positive energy within myself and share that light with the world. But I have taken my friend’s point to heart and have been wondering where the line lies between seeking joy and avoiding growth. Tomorrow I may return to both fiddle and joy with renewed vigor, but tonight, plunging the depths has been delicious.

A bass in the living room

Everything was in place tonight for the Salem Old Time Jam. Our new restaurant host, Howling Wolf, seemed to be pleased with us two weeks ago and had welcomed our return for this evening's session. I had sent out an email to our group, reminding them of the day and time. I had asked a strong player to choose and lead a "tune of the week" and had sent out a recording so that members could practice it. Half an hour before the jam began, a friend stopped by my house to pick up a fiddle bow she had left behind earlier and mentioned that Howling Wolf looked a little dark. I jumped in my car, raced over to investigate, and found a scribbled sign on the door: "Closed for renovations." As luck would have it, my upstairs neighbor is away on vacation, so I figured I could get away with an impromptu jam session at home. I taped a note to the door of Howling Wolf, stating that the session had moved to my home, and darted back to pick up the living room in the hopes of accommodating our growing jam in my small condo. Maintaining a healthy sense of priorities, I also stopped on the way to procure some white wine, of the cheap boxed variety.

Seven folks gathered in my living room and the jam went on as usual. The instruments ranged from mandolin to stand up bass, which we somehow squeezed between my piano and coffee table, and the snacks ranged from stale animal crackers to caramel popcorn. Sadly, I realize that others did not see the note on Howling Wolf's door or could not find my home and I feel terrible for the inconvenience.

Now, I enjoy journaling and from time to time. Sometimes I read over my old entries and am always intrigued to see what I wrote in years gone by. Recently I read something that I wrote four years ago, when I had just moved to Salem. I had tried some sort of cheesy exercise where you are supposed to imagine things that you wish you had in your life, no matter how outlandish they seem, and list them freely. Just writing about them, the author had assured, is the first step to manifesting your dreams. Right. The hidden dream that revealed itself upon my page that day was a vision of a room full of all sorts of acoustic instruments, knowing how to play them, and having tons of people to playing with me. At the time I played classical piano and had no plans to pick up another instrument or learn traditional folk music.

So thank you members of Salem Old Time Jam, and thank you to the Howling Wolf managers for planning renovations without informing us, for a lesson in flexibility and for filling my home with all sorts of acoustic instruments and the beautiful people to play them.

Salem Jamlet Becomes a Jam

When the weather became too chilly for the Salem Jamlet to meet out on the ocean, I convinced the owner of a nearby restaurant called Scratch Kitchen to host us. A few days before the first Scratch Kitchen jam, the two most regular players let me know that they could not attend. One by one, the usual suspects from our miniscule pool of players suddenly became unavailable and nightmarish images began to churn through my mind--one not-so-happy novice fiddler attempting to play alone while diners look on, some horrified, others mildly annoyed. Tomatoes hurled across the room, splattering on my beloved fiddle. The day of the jam, I frantically emailed or called everyone I could think of, including musicians from Boston that I had met at various workshops. I begged and I pleaded, but no one seemed to be available.

I arrived at Scratch, prepared for the worst. Shortly after the jam was scheduled to begin, a highly skilled fiddler I had met at Rustic Roots hobbled through the door, armed with crutches, guitar and fiddle. And I knew that all would be well. Over the next ten minutes, several other unexpected players appeared, the jam went smoothly, and we were invited to continue meeting at Scratch Kitchen.

In the new year Scratch will not be open on Monday nights, so tonight marked our first jam at Howling Wolf--a much larger, heavily populated Mexican restaurant. When I arrived, several newcomers to the jam were already seated, carefully applying rosin to their bows. Musicians proceeded to pour through the door until we were spilling out of the alcove Howling Wolf had allotted to us. Thirteen players. Several professional musicians or teachers. Fiddles, guitars, banjo, standup bass, uke, even a hammered dulcimer.

Before me was a mass of friends and strangers, all better musicians than myself, and somehow I was supposed to lead it. Couldn't someone else take charge? Anyone but the girl who got her first fiddle six months ago. I didn't even know how to get everyone's attention so that I could welcome the newcomers. I quietly asked a friend to start "Over the Waterfall" with me and by the third time through, everyone had jumped in and we found one another through the beat and melody of an old familiar tune. We played it over and over and by the time the tune ended, the beast before me had become one body and we played together as such for the next two hours.

Come join us at Howling Wolf on Monday, January 16, 6:00-8:00.

Fiddle, love, and the bottom of the bucket

December vacation nears its end, leaving me full of fiddle tunes, names for God, and Love. One divine quality that resonated with me was Ar-Rahim, the capacity to receive deep love and compassion on all levels of our being. Ar-Rahim is like the moon, whereas Ar-Rahman is like the sun--our ability to let love and compassion beam from our core. The Sufi Book of Life relates a parable to illustrate the quality of Ar-Rahim:

A student arrives at the home of Mullah, the wise fool. Mullah asks his student to help him draw water from the well, and then Mullah begins to splash water into his bucket. The student observes that the water level of the bucket is not rising as Mullah frantically splashes more water into the bucket, and goes on to notice a sizable leak at the bottom of the bucket. He points out the leak and explains to Mullah that his efforts to fill the bucket are futile. "My friend," Mullah responds, "I was only looking at the top of the bucket. What does the bottom have to do with it?"

How often it is that we only look at the top of the bucket, at what more we can receive, rather than considering how to process and lovingly hold what we have already received. With this mind frame, more is never enough, whether we are dealing with love, knowledge, wealth, or, say, fiddle tunes. Perhaps we can practice receiving all of the blessings that come to us in such a way that we are not left unsatisfied, needing more all the time.

While I was considering this divine quality over the past days, a friend suggested that I write a blog entry titled "Fiddle and Love." This friend was almost certainly referring to the romantic liaisons that have sprung up in my life around my love for the fiddle. I confess, there have been a few.

Such a blog entry might hone in on such musical romantic adventures as strapping instruments into bike paniers for a midsummer ride to Singing Beach to play tunes by the side of the ocean, or waking up to learn a new tune in pajamas before making breakfast or brushing teeth, or piano and fiddle duets in a cozy living room before bed. Or perhaps the blog entry would hone in on those pesky questions that arise at times: Are you using me for fiddle tunes? Am I using you for fiddle tunes? Or is fiddle just a humble path to YOU? Does it even matter anyway?

At this moment in my journey, there is very little that I know for sure about the fiddle or love--although I have a feeling that the bottom of the bucket is where many of the answers lie. Take care of the bottom of the bucket so these beautiful adventures remain always within; take care of the bottom so that the love you receive fulfills you and does not leave you always needing something more; take care of the bottom and keep practicing, perfecting, and loving all the tunes you already know, rather than wanting always to learn a new tune. In a sea of unsureness, I have found great comfort this week in tending to the bottom of my bucket.

With the bottom of the bucket in mind, for two days I have limited my fiddling to reviewing and enjoying the tunes I have already learned....until yesterday, when a handsome fiddler passed on a pdf file of fiddle tunes and asked me to start working on them from page one, so that he and I might bolster our common repertoire. I am eager to learn the first tune, which is appropriately named "The Bottom of the Punchbowl."

Al~Muntaqim, Dry and Dusty

A daily fiddle tune and name for God has made for a rather divine vacation thus far. I have learned one important lesson: that I cannot attempt reels if I want to learn a tune every day, because these tunes take me several days to learn, it turns out. So I'll stick with jigs, polkas, and old time for a bit.

A favorite name for God so far has been Al~Batin: The Hidden Traveler. It is the quality of God that lives deep within and is hidden from others; the traveler within us that walks without feet. It reminds us that sometimes, wisdom is best left as a secret within our hearts. Silence is important and beautiful at times. On the day that I had chosen this name, I happened to have a fiddle lesson. My teacher aptly chose "Arkansas Traveler," and brought to light the old time bowing patterns that lid hidden within this simple melody.

This morning brought me to Al~Muntaqim, a quality of God connected with sweeping out the dusty rooms of our heart, or purifying ourselves from any affectations we may have taken on to please others. The book shares a lovely Shabistari poem the illustrate the point:

"...Why don't you sweep out the rooms of your heart

and prepare them to be the home of the Beloved?

When you leave, the One can enter.

Freed from self, the Beloved reveals its beauty.

Purified from all impressions

your real self outgrows differences--

knower and known become one."

Searching for a tune that could somehow connect, I was delighted to learn that one of my favorites from Brittany Haas's CD happens to be called "Dry and Dusty."

Al~`Ali, Green Mountain

The introduction of The Sufi Book of Life suggests that the reader not go in order through the ninety nine names, but rather flip through the book, or even open randomly, and "if something strikes you, stick with it." This morning I found myself at:

Name 36: Al~`Ali. Experiencing Life at Its Peak

This "L" is a deep consonant that brings you to the back of your throat sending the sound back to the physical body, not the kind of "L" that floats out into the air in front of us, as in the words "light" and "laughter." It captures the quality of being at the peak of everything, but in a way that leaves space for our own constructed notions of the self to disappear. Perhaps we are experiencing a "peak moment" through the grace of God--a moment that we can simply experience in its Divine fullness without analyzing or imposing concepts upon it. Douglas-Klotz reminds us to see these moments as a reflection of God in us; these experiences do not belong to us, but rather are a loan from the Divine, to remind us that there is more work to be done.

Ya-Ali. I could not stop saying this word, once I began this morning. It filled me with such a grounding peace; with permission to live at the peak of this joy that fills my life; with a call to view this moment, with gratitude, as a loan from God.

Time to try a fiddle tune. A new fiddle friend just emailed me three volumes of Irish music. The first volume alone, which supposedly only includes the most common of tunes, contains about 120. So the Irish zeal for writing tunes has outdone the Sufi passion for naming God. (Although the book has about the 99 names, it does assert that there are infinite qualities of the Divine.... It's still entirely possible that the Irish tunes win out, I'm not sure.)

So, feeling at the peak of life, I scrolled through the first volume of Irish tunes and decided to try a tricky little reel: "Green Mountain."

Ar-Rahman, Tucker's Barn

I began my two-week December vacation last night by riding across the the Beverly Bridge, fiddle strapped securely in a panier, to play at the Atomic Cafe Irish session. There were six of us altogether--four fiddles, a flute, and a guitar--most of whom were familiar faces. We played many old favorites and, as always, I left with a list of tunes to learn before the next session. On the chilly ride home from Beverly, I decided to learn one new tune each day of this vacation. Sixteen tunes.

This morning, I awoke with fiddle music in my heart, but forced myself to hold off as my friend, who is temporarily living on the floor of my study, was still asleep. So I turned to my kitchen bookshelf, where books unrelated to the seventh grade curriculum tend to sit and gather dust until summertime. I picked up a pristine copy of The Sufi Book of Life: 99 Pathways of the Heart for the Modern Dervish by Neil Douglas-Klotz. I had learned about this book at a Sufi retreat last month and purchased it, imagining that I may one day have time to read it.

A dervish, the introduction reminded me, is "one who sits in the doorway or on the threshold or something, ready to move on and transform him- or herself." The 99 pathways are Arabic words that are names of the the Beloved, or God. They are powerful words that embody a living spiritual experience of the Divine and can awaken us to the pathways to God that already exist in our hearts. Over the past years, I have worked in meditation with a small handful of the these names, but am largely ignorant of the others, and have never taken up a consistent practice of working with them.

So. Why not one pathway and one fiddle tune for each day of vacation? The final week of Advent and subsequent Holy Nights are a magical time--a time when the earth around us is at its darkest and we are all invited to let Divine light shine within. Perhaps the joyful practices of welcoming each day with a new fiddle tune and a new name for God, will ..... well I'm not quite sure what it will do, but I do want to try it.

So.......

Pathway 1: Ar-Rahman: The Sun of Love. This is the kind of love that shines from within us and comes from a deeper source; it is always there, waiting to be discovered. Sometimes we have to give up a part of ourselves or ideas we hold in order to seek it. Douglas-Klotz illuminates this pathway by sharing the following poem by Mahmud Shabistari:

"The stakes are high for real prayer.

You must gamble your self

and be willing to lose.

When you have done this,

and your self shakes off

what you believed your self to be,

then no prayer remains,

Only a sparkle of the eyes.

Knower and known are one."

Here is to cultivating this divine sun that lives within. Ar-Rahman. Bismallah Ar-Rahman Ar-Rahim. My first step in doing so was to learn "Tucker's Barn," a cheery old time tune in G.

Double stops are unforgiving

I recently took a couple of lessons from Alan Kaufman, the fiddler who leads the well-known old time jam at Skellig. Alan seems to live in one cluttered bedroom, where instruments, music, books, and computer spill from the walls, leaving space only for Alan and one student to sit in the center of the room, unscathed by the chaos, for a lesson. Each time I have gone to Alan's home, we have worked on one of the tunes he regularly leads at the Skellig, with attention to the challenges of old time bowing and timing. Then he makes a recording of himself playing the tune and emails it to me so that I can perfect it at home.

This week, when we were reviewing "Duck River," the tune I had been working on since the last lesson, I noticed that Allan was adding a double stop that I wasn't playing: when the melody bounced up to a high B, he put his first finger down to play the B below it. I tried to add in this extra touch, but even I winced at the resulting screeching out-of-tune octave. Double stops are completely unforgiving. Any intonation inaccuracies are magnified and made uglier when played against another note, in unison or in harmony.

Alan noticed my look of disgust and paused. Double stops are unforgiving, he says, it's ok. Remember three things.

1. Keep playing them, even when the going gets rough.

2. Set the bar high. Listen for and expect the highest level of intonation.

3. Be very forgiving.

Show up, set the bar high and be forgiving. Can these last two concepts go together? I was recently discussing the nature of ambition and setting goals with a friend while hiking in Vermont. I don't worry too much about any of my goals, I had insisted. It's all about finding joy in the process. I didn't even care if we reached the summit after hiking the better part of a day, I had claimed. And it is true, I would have been perfectly content to turn around at any point, but perhaps my story was missing something.

I have learned to be extremely forgiving of myself and accepting of whatever I am at any moment and whatever comes my way; this has brought me great joy. But this forgiveness can go hand in hand with a high bar--with setting out to reach a beautiful mountaintop, a goal of learning a new Irish tune each day of vacation, or striving to one day master old time bowing techniques. In the cramped lair of Alan's home, it finally occurred to me that challenging goals and forgiveness do indeed go together. Perhaps each makes the other possible.

So here's to showing up for life, setting the bar high, and, above all, forgiving ourselves.

The beat that binds us together

On Friday night, I attended a new Irish Session at Atomic Cafe in Beverly. When I arrived with a friend, there were five musicians crowded around a small dining area, playing banjo, bouzouki, guitar, concertina, and fiddle. Four diners sat at the edge of the group, sipping coffee drinks and tapping their feet while listening intently to the music. They applauded vigorously at the end of each tune. The only person I recognized was the fiddler leading the session, and she generously invited me to pick a few tunes that I knew for the group to play. It soon became clear that this was no novice group and the others in the circle knew just about every Irish tune in the book (or shall I say in thesession.org, the comprehensive online database of Irish music?). Yet they gladly dived into the run-of-the-mill Irish classics that I chose--Road to Lisdoonvarna, Morrison's, and Boys of Bluehill, to name a few. And there we sat playing for nearly two hours, strangers to one another, yet connected deeply through a shared knowledge of tunes, and bound together in rhythm and pitch.

On Saturday night, I set down the fiddle and ventured into a world of musical connection that is a bit more mainstream, if you will: the night club. I always forget that this operation exists just down the road from my home....

After a stern look from the bouncer, who scrutinized my ID as if I were criminal suspect, I followed my friend through the double doors, where the trance-like beat and flashing lights transported us to another dimension. We found our place among about sixty other dancers on the floor and began to move. My racing mind slowed and soon turned off, while the pounding bass took its place in guiding my every move. I saw one familiar face in the sea of strangers: my neighbor, who smiled and danced his way over moments later with drinks for my friend and me. He glanced at the guy accompanying me, then somewhat quizzically back at me, before we lost ourselves once more in the beat. And there we all were, packed even tighter than we had been in the small Atomic Cafe session, all driven by the same beat, twisting, bouncing, shaking as one body.

I surrendered myself to the moment in joy. Yet, there was something very different about this second night of music. A different kind of surrender ruled the night club, a kind that leaves little space for the higher self perhaps. Everything was taking us out of ourselves: the pulsing beat, the flashing lights, and the alcohol coursing through our blood. Somehow we had been fully present the night before at the Irish Session, while letting the tunes carry us together to another place.

When the music at the club stopped, the dancers poured out onto the streets, where trance-like bliss faded into inelegant reality. The bouncers tried to disperse the crowd, visibly nervous that trouble would spark up near their establishment. One man began to yell that he wanted his knife back and, on the sidewalk, two small mobs of buff young men with women in mini skirts began to shout at one another, while two men lunged for each other in the center, fists swinging.

As for walking out of the Atomic session? There had been an exchange of email addresses and invitations to other local jams, compliments on tunes well played, and recommendations for new tunes to learn, amidst a sea of smiles and shaking hands.

Reminds me of teaching. Two different lessons can seem so full and joyful while teaching. The true measure of the nourishment I have given my students is how they behave in eurythmy class that afternoon, or how they treat each other at recess.

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.

Winder Slide continues

I could hear them playing it the moment I opened the doors of the Skellig to attend Alan Kaufman's old-time jam. "Winder Slide" embraced me at the door as an old friend. Joy was followed by the sinking realization that the tune would be over before I would have the chance to take out my fiddle, tune it, and attach the shoulder rest. I scampered past the circle of fiddles, guitars, banjos, and mandolins to the back foyer, where everyone leaves their instrument cases. The Winder gods were sympathetic to my cause, however, and Alan must have cycled through the tune a few more times than usual, because I made it back to the circle in time to play through three times.

Old-Time music is amazing. It is a distinctively American style that evolved in the Appalachian Mountains from the Irish, Scottish, and English immigrants, each having brought their own tunes and techniques from across the Atlantic. It has evolved over time as tunes have been passed along by ear. It is these jams, held on back porches overlooking Appalachian Mountains, at county fiddle contests, and now in Waltham's Irish pub, that keep the tradition alive and renewed.

After the jam concluded, a few fellow fiddlers and I stopped by an Indian/Hispanic grocery store next door for an evening snack. We picked up chicken sausages bursting with exotic flavors, almond-saffron cookies, Indian paratha, and Mexican queso a mano and headed to the river. The unlikely combinations of ethnic flavors blended together and created something that was greater than any of the parts had been on their own.

Winder Slide

If you happen to look at the little “Tunes of the Week” section on the right side of this blog, you may have noticed that “Winder Slide” has overstayed its welcome and become a Tune of the Month--and perhaps will earn its place as a Tune of the Season in due time. It’s not that I haven’t learned any other tunes this month. It’s not that I haven’t been able to pick up the basic melody of this tune and play along in jams. It’s a matter of stubbornness.

“Winder Slide” drew me in the first time I heard it at a late-night jam around the fire at Rustic Roots. Before collapsing in my sleeping bag that night, I scribbled down “Winder Slide” in a little notebook my fairy godmother gave me, where I keep lists of tunes learned and tunes to learn. A month later, I found Lucy Wise’s recording (the link on this page), and was both intrigued and haunted by her graceful old-time bowing, the rhythm, and her use of double-stops. Now, with most tunes, I learn a basic beginner-friendly version, practice it for a few days, add it to the list, and enjoy playing along when it comes up at jams. But I watched Lucy’s clip over and over again and decided that I must learn this tune just as she plays it. This is much like the way Rayna Gellert, who wrote the tune, plays it in her album, "Ways of the World."

My first attempts were rather pathetic. There was the basic melody to catch by ear, then the syncopated rhythm, and all those fast old timey tricks she does with her bow that I haven’t learned how to do yet. After the first week of failed attempts, a friend went through the recording with me and translated the technical elements, demonstrating them slowly so that, at least, I understood what she was doing, despite not being able to replicate it. I practiced a few more days and gave up on the song for two weeks.

When I revisited Lucy Wise’s clip after the hiatus and attempted to play it, I discovered with great surprise that I could actually do it. Well, slowly and with some rough patches, that is. And so I return to it as a treat while practicing every day, although I still don’t quite have it.

Last Monday at the Salem Jamlet on the pier, someone called “Winder Slide.” I leaned in towards the strongest fiddle so I could listen the first time through. They were playing a simpler version, which I quickly picked it up and began playing with the group. I think this simpler version is one that would be sufficient for playing along at any jam.

But I cannot let go of the more complex, beautiful, haunting version of “Winder Slide” and perhaps one day I will play it like Lucy Wise. My students have recently been studying the Renaissance explorers and we were all fascinated by Henry the Navigator, who spent twelve years attempting to get a voyage to round Africa’s elusive Cape of Bojador. With patience and encouragement, he sent one expedition after another into the great unknown until his goal was reached. Even if "Winder Slide" takes twelve years, what a joyful activity to carry through the next decade!

Create the community you want

When you live in Salem, playing in an old time jam or Irish session means getting in the car and driving 30-45 minutes. Every other Thursday, I carpool to Tim Rowell's jam at the Real School of Music. Once, when sharing the car with three other old time enthusiasts from the North Shore, I suggested that we should just start our own jam at home.

And so every other Monday from 6:00 to 8:00 we sit by the new ship ribs on Derby Wharf and play music as sunny afternoons turn to dusk. Tourists and local dog walkers pass by, occasionally pausing to listen, but it feels as if we are in our own world, a bubble separating us from the people and passing time of the world outside. The "Salem Jamlet," as one of the founding members calls it, has met four times so far, and Scratch Kitchen down the road has offered to host us when the weather gets too cold for playing outside. If you live on the North Shore, come by with your instrument and play along two weeks from today!

When I moved to Salem four years ago, I would often walk down this very wharf alone and wish for community. It is amazing to see what comes from the seeds we plant in our hearts.

You can choose

Since moving to Massachusetts, I have not been camping, apart from field trips with my class. Studying traditional fiddle music changed that, beginning with the Annual Harry Smith Frolic in Greenfield. At this event, well over one hundred Old Time musicians came together for a weekend of camping and open jamming, including a reenactment of all the tunes on the Harry Smith anthology around the campfire at midnight. Most of the participants seemed to be long-time veterans of the event and all had enough endurance to put an Ironman triathlete to shame. One older fiddler remained in the same seat for the entire three days, perhaps not even leaving for sleep or food (at least when I was watching). He became enshrouded in a faint cloud of rosin from his bow, which began to accumulate on his trousers as a light dusting of snow. All the same, his reserve of memorized tunes to lead in the jam outlasted the three-day Frolic.

The second camping adventure was Rustic Roots, a music camp run by Andy Reiner, which, as the website warns, “is not for the faint-hearted.” At Rustic Roots, about twenty students and five teachers gathered together on a pond in Connecticut for a weekend party of workshops, communal cooking, and late-night jams around the campfire. The primitive latrines were a hot topic of conversation throughout the weekend and bodily functions were encouraged by the director. The group was eclectic—ranging from a 20-something law student to an African-raised French percussionist perhaps in her 60s, philosophers, marijuana farmers, and sculptors—but we left the camp as one family, each member having taken enormous musical strides.

A fiddle class at Rustic Roots.

This weekend, a Rustic Roots friend, Theresa, and I were inspired to organize a final musical camping extravaganza….Rustic Roots: The After-Image. We reserved a campsite on a quiet pond in Georgetown and invited everyone we could think of. In the end, we recruited a third recovering Rustic Rootian, Theresa’s colleague, and a Harvard undergraduate, who would effortlessly school us all on fiddle, mando, and guitar.

This weekend, and in all of these events, a beginner faces the inevitable: advanced players calling tunes you’ve never heard of at speeds you will never keep up with. Many of my music friends have pointed out that you will always be around better players and you can choose to feel bad about yourself or you can choose to be inspired. Last night, around the campfire in Georgetown, I struggled to pick up phrases of unfamiliar tunes and to keep up with tunes I knew. Sometimes it feels like an impossible battle, but it is always in those fresh hours of the morning that we see yesterday’s trials through lenses tinted with empowerment. And so I sat on a rock at the edge of the pond before the others had risen and added my own song to that of the Canadian Geese and, at least to me, my battlefield fiddle and novice skills sounded beautiful.

Hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the earth

"Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened. Don't open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument. Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the earth."

-Rumi

I survived the first week of teaching seventh grade and watched the gibbous moon rise over West Beach with good company, many musical instruments, and a hookah.

This week's primary tasks include an alcohol explosion, a spontaneous fire with sulphuric acid, and building a brick lime kiln. These are among the many joys of teaching Chemistry. If I am still standing by Tuesday....It's north to Georgetown to join about 25 musicians at a weekly Irish session, which has become one of my favorites.

Lately I wake up with a tune in my head and can almost feel my arm gliding a bow across fiddle strings. Perhaps this week before shower, breakfast, brushing teeth, I should just take down a musical instrument and play the tune that has graced my moment of awakening.

Warming the home

Last week my String Swing Home and Studio Violin Hanger arrived in the mail. It sat on my counter for two days until I worked up the courage to face the dreaded toolbox. Grim memories flashed through my mind of failed attempts to install curtain rods, which had resulted in the loss of chunks of my bedroom wall. I checked the screws and rifled through my toolbox for a phillips head (a term I only learned as a Waldorf teacher, where the teachers are also janitors and handywomen). I chose the spot where an old boyfriend used to keep his three foot wide television and tried to place the wood block perfectly straight. Two minutes later, fiddle and bow had a new home and no chunks of wall had been sacrificed for the cause.

Some say that it is not best for the health of an instrument to be left out, due to the varying humidity of the home. I'll worry about that if I buy a nicer instrument one day. After all, my fiddle teacher referred to my instrument as a battlefield fiddle. If it can survive a battle, then why not my living room wall?