I took the scenic route on my way home from the bank yesterday, meaning that I strolled through town, turning a quick errand into almost an hour. As I walked, I took pictures of the blossoms I saw along the way, signs of spring here far too early.
This is in sharp contrast to the bitterly cold weather we had intermittently in December and January, and the two large snowfalls that had me going to work by bus rather than bike for days at a time.
I’m glad we took the opportunity to go winter hiking when there was snow on the ground and frost in the air.
I hope the little blossoms know more than I do, and I hope there are strong memories in their roots and soil, in their home. Will they be okay if winter comes again? As I breathed in deeply, a woman passing by assured me that the tree has always been a winter bloomer.
The weather was temperate when we went skiing last week, and then too warm, and now it’s cold again there. The seasons are certainly no longer as predictable as they were, but they were never all that predictable, at least where I grew up.
Yet, it’s different now. The air feels different. And we are far beyond the point of pretending not to notice.
In some ways, it was the easiest move I’ve ever done.
Clothes packed into duffel bags and suitcases, books and crockery into boxes, decorative items gently wrapped before being placed into other boxes, frames taken off walls and stacked. Furniture loaded into the car or the van, padded with pillow and blankets. Three or four trips, one to a village a short ways away, and we were done.
And with every trip, things everywhere.
Furniture carefully moved into pre-measured locations, no space to spare. Empty a bag, fill a set of drawers, unzip the next bag, reorganize the drawers.
We spent hours combining two kitchens into one and formed piles: Things we use and love, thing to store for later use, things to donate, things that simply needed to go. Glad we had built a new set of shelves.
Mere days later, the bed stood slightly higher and more items found their place. Shortly thereafter, a new cabinet in the bathroom took care of a general sense of organized chaos.
A beloved photo printed on canvas. More pictures arranged and hung. Every spare surface filled with plants.
Forms filled out, phone calls made, appointments set, items slowly crossed off the bureaucratic to-do list. Agreements set with the landlord, a day spent painting the old apartment, items gradually sold to colleagues, to strangers, other items donated. I’ve always found it pretty easy to part with things.
A new, longer route to work. Depending on the weather, through the city or through the park. Based on the snow conditions, by bike or by bus. Alarm reset to save time for last-minute adjustments.
And then finding rhythm. Alarms ringing at different times, shower occupied morning and evening, discussion of which temperature to wash clothes. Who starts coffee and who makes the bed and are you coming straight home after work?
This move reminded me of my first move: Excitement, joy, family around to help, pizza when everything was done. I have a lot of experience with moves and it makes a difference, having people there to direct, to carry, to organize. It makes a difference, not doing it alone. But this move was yet different in its celebration, in the name labels that went up on the doorbell and mailbox.
This move was not just a change of location, be it part of town or city or country, but a change of circumstance, a change that I’d tried once before in a very different place and very different time. Aware of this, I had a moment shortly before where the world swayed under my feet and I needed time for it to steady itself; I needed time to steady myself.
In many ways, this was the easiest move I’d ever done. In another sense, the ease belies the work it took to get here.
And that’s how it is with transitions, I think. You don’t realize you’re there until you are. And then you step over the threshold.
Not too long ago, I wrote about how I’ve started playing guitar again after a rather long time away. My playing is pretty quiet and private, but I can strum chords, read music, and enjoy rhythm. I like the feel of the strings under my fingers and the growing strength in underused muscles of my left forearm.
To some extent, it was this reinitiated enjoyment that led me to say yes, after several days of thinking it over, when an email went out asking for colleagues who could play an instrument or sing to join in a band that will perform at our upcoming arts and music festival.
To another, and perhaps greater, extent, I thought about how much we expect from students in terms of taking risks, being uncomfortable, doing something new. The last significant time I had been in that position, I learned to climb and it has left a profound imprint on my life, one far beyond what I could have imagined. That was a number of years ago now, and maybe this was a good time to be there again. Maybe this was the opportunity to shrug away the shyness and uncertainty and to join a group of nice people, many of whom do not consider themselves musicians, and try a new thing.
And so I said yes.
That was how I found myself playing guitar in a band.
Until now, my playing with others had been limited to other guitars, a group of us sitting around on a couple of social occasions after a meal and some drinks. An unstoppable grin spread across my face when I first heard my tentative guitar playing alongside drums, saxophone, piano, bass, flute, and vocals. Unsurprisingly, my playing grew more confident and louder, and it didn’t take long for me to switch from acoustic guitar to electric, which I haven’t played since I was a teenager.
And there I was, playing electric guitar in a band.
Over the several weeks in which we rehearsed weekly, I found myself singing along while playing, attempting different strumming patterns just for fun, and watching my colleagues instead of my fingers. I slipped into the mindset I’d developed during years of theatre and dance: “If you make a mistake,” my directors and choreographers said, “make a loud mistake.” There’s really no hiding a mistake on an electric guitar, I thought. But, as one of the music directors reassured me, there were a lot of us playing.
And that was the point. The point was to play together as a group. The point was to blend with the group, to be part of the harmony holding the song together. Not confident or well-practiced enough to have a go at one of the solos, I was content to sit far in the background, keeping a rhythm. What I had to do was pretty elementary and with each week I felt more confident and better at ease.
And if I’m honest, I also felt proud. By playing guitar in front of others, talented music teachers and colleagues among them, I had overcome a hurdle that had always stood in my way. I didn’t need to be afraid of playing loudly anymore because there I was, doing exactly that. I wouldn’t say I plunged into the deep end, but I definitely splashed around to an extent that I never had before. In doing so, I had been uncertain and taken a risk, exactly as I expect my students to do. A little bit of empathy there.
When I first replied to that email, I thought about how excited I am when I talk to new people at the climbing hall or when people come to yoga class for the first time. I’m excited for them because I love the thing they’re trying out and I want them to love it, too. When the music teachers invited us to play, they were excited to share something they love. Their excitement was infectious, the energy in the room invigorating, and the laughter warm and welcoming.
One with the band.
Photos, travels, musings, and ideas on education by someone trying to make the world a better and more peaceful place
By Rebecca Michelle 