DIY Art Therapy

At the end of my last lesson with Charlene, she said, "Thank you for all your hard work." The statement caught me a little off guard. I've been very, very conscious of how bad my playing is; although I do have some abilities -- as Charlene said, "You have a good ear; if I play a tune for you, you can play it back to me" -- I don't speak the language of music and would never consider myself a musician. I'm somebody who enjoys scratching out very rough tunes on the viola.

But what Charlene said made me think, "Huh. Yeah, I have worked hard at this, haven't I?" And, more to the point, when I've been able to let go of my deeply ingrained perfectionist streak, I've enjoyed it.

The perfectionist thing goes way back. I'll spare you the history; suffice it to say that for many years, I was one of those unhappy people who measured my worth by my external accomplishments, especially grades. This tends, or tended in my case anyway, to turn into a glass-half-empty mindset: I measured myself according to what I hadn't done, and if you think that way, you'll always consider yourself a failure, because there's always someone who's done more.

I've been struggling with this issue lately at work. For one thing, academics are increasingly being evaluated as much by what they haven't done as by what they have, which is why I won't be going up for full professor. I have to keep reminding myself that even if I don't have the "national profile" required for promotion, I have published four books (with more on the way, I hope), and also perform community service I wouldn't have time for were I serving on MLA committees. The non-promotion situation, though, has re-sensitized me to how stressful glass-half-empty thinking is on colleagues and other people around me.

It's a tricky issue. Several of my students this semester have been very upset that I graded them on the results of their work, rather than on their effort. My response, and that of most professors I know, is that I have no way to measure relative effort, and that other arenas of human experience (most jobs, for instance) evaluate on results, too. Learning to come to terms with that is an important part of a college education.

At the same time, though, I always try to tell my students that their grades are not the measure of their personal worth. I know many of them don't believe me; if they did, the grades wouldn't upset them so much in the first place, and at that age, I sure didn't believe anybody who told me the same thing. I'm always heartened by students who maybe didn't get perfect grades, but who say that they enjoyed the class, or learned something, or acquired a new skill. In other words, the students who are looking at what they have, and not at what they don't: glass-half-full folk. They're so much healthier than I was in college.

Another way of defining this is process thinking versus product thinking. Both are important, but in different ways and for different purposes, and if you enjoy a process, you've gained something even if no one else appreciates the product. (One of the problems with academic promotion procedures right now is that the range of acceptable products has tightened considerably.)

It needs to be said that some of this stuff is a function of consumer culture, which encourages to focus on what we don't have so we'll go buy it. As an inveterate shopper, I'm very familiar with that pattern.

So, anyway. Today, as previously advertised, I sat down to start revising the latest novel. I did fine; I'm about ten pages in. But the next two sections, the ones scheduled for tomorrow, will require a lot of changes and some major plot rethinking, and I felt my stomach clenching up about it even today. Gotta get it right gotta get it right gotta get it right.

That mantra serves a purpose, but at this stage it's counter-productive. It's classic glass-half-empty thinking, because I'm looking at what's wrong, what isn't there: at lack, rather than possibility.

I played the viola for a while, since that always gets me to loosen up. Playing the viola means giving myself permission to do something badly, just because it's fun.

Then I decided to go shopping for a Magic Revision Pencil (inveterate shopper!). I like soft, dark pencils, and the number two I used this morning wasn't cutting it. Staples didn't have anything softer. After a few other unproductive stops, I wound up buying a drawing pencil at an art-supply store.

And that reminded me how much I like drawing. As a kid, I had a modest amount of artistic talent and drew and painted up a storm, to the lavish praise of the adults around me. I loved it. But as I got older and fell further into glass-half-empty, I became shyer about the visual stuff. I wasn't good enough. I wasn't skilled enough. I wasn't a Real Artist. This is of course either completely true or utter hogwash, depending on your point of view. I'll never be in MOMA or be paid for my artwork, but I have as much right to draw, paint and doodle as anybody else.

Back in 2006, inspired in part by a course I'd taken on art as spiritual practice, I briefly kept a drawing journal. Every day I'd produce a little doodle. Some are quite pretty; some are hideous; all of them were absorbing and fun. But after a while, I became too self-conscious about that project, too, and put the sketchbook away.

Today I took it out again. I sharpened up my colored pencils and doodled for an hour or so. The product will never be in MOMA, but the process made me very happy. As kids know, and as adults too often forget, coloring's a blast! (I can't remember who said, "All five year olds know they can draw. All fifteen year olds know they can't," but it's spot on.)

I hope to do one of these a day. I think the drawing journal -- along with the viola and knitting -- will help me stay relaxed on the writing front. And anything that creates joy should be maximized.

Transitions

Yesterday I saw my chiropractor and asked if she could recommend a new PCP. She immediately gave me a list of names of doctors her own patients love. One of the people she recommended very highly is a Nurse Practitioner who works with an MD who's also trained in medical acupuncture. I'd already heard good things about him and had been considering checking him out -- here's his bio, which I find both honest and compelling (I especially like his definition of illness as "the human experience of disease," which is a precise and helpful distinction) -- so that was an easy sell, especially since he's on my insurance! I've had good results from acupuncture for my sinusitis, although I'm skeptical about a lot of "energy work," especially Reiki.

When I got home yesterday I called and got an appointment with the NP for 10:30 this morning. How convenient is that? As a plus, she's considerably closer to my house than my old PCP (although the office park where she's located is an absolute maze, and I kept getting lost).

I think she's great: warm, personable, empathetic, a great listener. She looked at me instead of at her computer, although like everyone else these days, the practice uses electronic medical records. She had, for a wonder, heard of Narrative Medicine! She shares my skepticism about the energy stuff and says she's had a hard time wrapping her head around acupuncture, but she keeps seeing patients respond really well to it, so that's convinced her. She adores the doctor. When I said, "I've decided that allopathic medicine is great for acute illness and life-threatening stuff like cancer and heart disease, but holistic medicine is better at treating chronic problems," she nodded vigorously and said, "That's so well put. I'm going to use that."

She recommended a new orthopedist, a knee specialist who's doing her own knee replacement next week. (Ouch!)

She talked about the fact that normal lab values -- while they can reassure you that you don't have cancer or whatever -- aren't a reason to dismiss complaints that people aren't feeling well. (My old doc's response tends to be, "You're fine. Your bloodwork's splendid.") She said, "You don't need more lab work or pharmaceuticals. You need to be treated as a whole person. We need to monitor your depression to make sure it doesn't become a problem, and we need to help you work through your grief." She asked if I was currently in therapy; I said I've stopped getting good results from talk therapy, although I process a lot through the blog, and that led us into a discussion of writing and healing. She hadn't known about James Pennebaker's research -- here's his writing and health homepage -- and was fascinated.

So her recommendation is that I see the doctor for a consultation; I have an appointment with him for June 9. When I left, she both shook my hand and hugged me. My old doctor's fallen into a pattern of walking away without a backward glance, not even responding to "thank you" or "good bye."

So I'm feeling vastly relieved and cautiously optimistic. A small voice in my head is saying, "You know these folks will burn out in five years, just like everybody else you've seen," but I'm trying to ignore it. And even if it's true, five years is better than nothing. So thank you to all of you who urged me not to settle for a doctor with whom I'd become uncomfortable!

In other news, today's my last fiddle lesson with Charlene. Her husband has a job in Madison, Wisconsin, which of course is one of the coolest places on earth, and has a much better music scene than Reno does. They're moving later this month.

I'm hoping, at some point today, to finish the extraordinarily rough first draft of Mending the Moon, and then to start revising like a maniac. I'd love to have it done by Mythcon, although that may be overly optimistic.

Ready for a Break

I've been very bad about posting, largely because, while there's a lot going on -- notably family medical concerns and an annoying situation with an alarming student -- most of it's stuff I can't discuss in any detail here. Let's just say that, while I'm glad classes are over, I've had better weeks.

Among other things, I've been entirely too conscious of non-stop Mother's Day advertising, which makes me miss Mom. My new church runs a very busy food pantry, and they solicited donations in honor of mothers, so I made one in memory of my mother and in thanksgiving for Gary's mom (who'll get a nice card from the church). That helped a little bit, but I'll be glad when the holiday's over for another year.

On the bright side:

Classes are over, except for the final I'm giving next week.

I've been chipping away at the book manuscript, mostly managing to write 1,000 words a day. I'm not happy with the results, but at least I have something to revise.

I've been exercising a lot, and have managed to lose a few pounds. I'm no longer officially-according-to-my-BMI overweight, although I'd like to lose a lot more (if only to give my back and knee a break: both have been complaining mightily lately).

I'm reading a wonderful book: Chris Adrian's new novel The Great Night.

Gary and I attended an astonishingly accomplished graduate viola recital last night.

Speaking of violas, I've started practicing mine again, and I'm having fun with it, even if the results aren't even remotely accomplished.

Gary and I just finished watching the first season of David Simon's new series Treme, which we loved (and I don't even like jazz!). I found the post-Katrina New Orleans setting especially poignant because my father still lived on the Gulf Coast when all of that was happening.

Last week I covered a class for a colleague who was dealing with a family emergency. This wasn't a big deal, especially since it was a really fun class. It's the kind of thing all of us do for each other whenever it's necessary. Colleagues covered for me when my parents died, for instance. Everybody hopes it won't be necessary, because you don't want your co-workers to be dealing with crises, but I don't think anyone expects any acknowledgment except a simple "thanks so much" (and depending on circumstances, even that's optional).

The colleague for whom I covered has a really impressive jewelry collection -- and this is coming from me, so that's saying something -- and we've periodically admired each other's pieces. I don't remember talking to her about turtles, but at some point she must have picked up on how much I like them, because earlier this week I discovered in my mailbox a thank-you card taped to a box containing this stunning item.

I was very nearly speechless (and coming from me, that's saying something!).

I've worn the pendant several times already and have gotten lots of compliments on it. Right now, the turtle's an especially timely reminder of things I need to remember:

* Hiding under your shell is fine, but you need to stick your neck out to get anywhere.
* It's okay to go slowly as long as you keep moving.
* Only carry as much as you need.

So that was my week, o gentle readers. How are all of you?

Digging

I'm now officially snowed under with grading, committee work and meetings (although the weather here's been warm and sunny!). As a result, I've canceled my fiddle lesson and hospital shift for Saturday. I can certainly use the extra five hours to dig myself out from under, and it seems wise not to repeat last week's pea-soup fiasco. I hate to skip my "electives," as it were, but I don't have time to get my work done in through here, let alone to do anything even remotely, by any definition, non-crucial.

Which includes blogging: yeah, I know. (And we're going to a concert tonight, since it's a friend's recital, but I'd already committed to that before the current crunch descended.) Two quick notes. One is that today's my mother's sobriety anniversary: she stopped drinking on January 25, 1964. Even my sister remembered that date, although she's not nearly as aware of anniversaries as I am. It was a huge turning point for our family, for obvious reasons; I've always found it ironic that it's also the Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul.

Secondly, outside my chiropractor's office today I met a ten-week-old Great Pyrenees puppy who was about the cutest thing in the world (and who's going to be gigantic when he grows up). I should've taken a picture, but didn't. You'll just have to take my word for it!

Peas and Pinballs

I had to reschedule yesterday's fiddle lesson because of meetings at work (the same will be true next Friday). Charlene was willing to meet this morning, so I went for a 10 a.m. lesson before my hospital shift.

I'm not aware that lessons are especially draining, but for whatever reason, I was just exhausted at the hospital. It was one of those days when I was dragging myself from room to room, re-visiting patients I'd already seen because I didn't remember that I'd already seen them, forgetting names, and generally being spacey. Sometimes I'm on and sometimes I'm not; today I definitely wasn't! The department was really busy, and all the nurses and techs were bouncing around like pinballs, looking grim and harried. (One of the ER docs somehow found the time to leave the hospital, go to a fast-food place, and come back with several huge bags of drinks and burgers and fries, which she walked around sticking under the noses of frazzled medical staff. "You're all working your butts off and not eating, and you need to eat!") I, on the other hand, felt like I was swimming through pea soup.

Early on, I'd had a brief visit with a patient who, despite looking very ill indeed, had been funny and cheerful. After my own lunch -- which was longer than usual, since I kept hoping the food would kick in and I'd get some energy -- the case manager told me the patient had died. One of the staff chaplains had been called, but would I go talk to the family until she arrived?

Of course I would, although the swimming-through-peas sensation kept me from feeling fully present. I offered a generic prayer; at my best, I'd have tried to learn more about the patient to personalize it more, but I wasn't at my best. A relative asked for coffee -- a need I felt able to meet! -- so I went to get it. When I got back, the staff chaplain was there. I was very relieved, since I knew she'd be more helpful to the family than I could be in my muddled state. (I probably should have just gone home early, but my attitude is that whatever I can do is better than nothing.)

Later, after the staff chaplain left, the family wanted help with release of medical records. I asked the case manager, who didn't know anything about the issue, so I went to the relevant department, talked to the manager there, got the form the family had to sign, and brought them that with the records. (From my point of view, this was the best moment of the shift; I've gone to that department before, but have always wound up wandering through eerily deserted hallways, unable to locate a soul. Today someone in the hall sent me through a nondescript, unlabeled door, and I finally located the nerve center of the place. I'll know where to go if I need anything there again!)

As I left at the end of my shift, the case manager asked if I'd gotten the records, and when I said that I had, said, "You've been really helpful today." (I'd gotten a bit of other info for him earlier.) I laughed and said that was good to hear, since it wasn't a day when I felt helpful.

Upstairs, I found a note from the staff chaplain, written on a Post-It she'd stuck to my timesheet. She said she hadn't known I was working today, and thanked me for my "compassion and help." It was very sweet of her. I'd have been more helpful if my brain hadn't been running down like a depleted wind-up toy, but again, I guess anything's better than nothing.

I was on my way to my car when I realized that I hadn't actually filled out my census sheet or signed out, and also that I'd left my notepad back in the office. So I had to turn around and go back, shoving aside peas. Sigh.

Now I'm trying to get work done, with mixed success. Time to get back to it. But I'm going to bed early tonight, I promise!

Away We Go!

I taught my first two classes yesterday; I think they went well, and I'm looking forward to the semester.

On Tuesday, one of my grad students handed in her 193-page thesis and 19-page annotated bibliography, along with a portfolio that's forty pages or so. And yesterday, I received the sixty-plus essays resulting from the med-school class I taught last week (I graded twenty-two of those last night). So even though the students in my two undergrad classes haven't started handing in work yet, this weekend will actually be one of my heavier grading sprints; for various reasons, I'd like to have all this material read and evaluated by Monday, although that may well be overly optimistic. I'm kind of glad this is happening now, though, when I'm still in the flush of that beginning-of-the-semester burst of energy.

Today's open, so I'm trying to get a lot of work done. Tomorrow's so crammed with meetings that I can't even get to my lesson with Charlene; that's deferred until Saturday, when (with luck) I'll also get to the hospital.

I worked all morning doing class prep for Monday. After I finish this post, I'll go swimming. On the way home, I'm going to splurge and buy a new grade book, since I've been using my old one for nine years and it's gotten a bit grotty.

Heigh ho, heigh ho . . . .

Whew!

Today I worked a busy shift at the hospital -- I had a census of ninety-nine, including two patients who reminded me poignantly of my mother -- and then went to work to grab some course materials I needed, and then went for a chiropractic adjustment (I think maybe it's starting to work, although I'm still sore), and then came home and worked like mad on my syllabi, both of which are now done.

Yay.

Thank God for Gary, who always proofreads my syllabi for me and catches errors I can't see because I've been staring at the documents for so long.

Tomorrow I'll go to school and photocopy for hours, jostling around all the other people who'll need to photocopy for hours -- at least I don't teach until Wednesday -- and I have a meeting with an honors student whose thesis I'm supervising, and I need to work on revising my Tolkien essay, which should have gotten done last week but didn't, and I need to write two letters of recommendation and . . . I'll need to swim. And tomorrow night I'll need to prep my first classes for Wednesday. As often as I've done this, I still get nervous.

Welcome to the beginning of the semester.

Our trip down to Minden on Saturday was lovely; I adored the music, although Gary was less than thrilled with the sound system. I spent some money at the yarn store, of course. We both liked the restaurant where we had dinner, which was conveniently across the street from the concert hall. We sat behind some other students of Charlene's -- a mom and teenaged daughter who are both taking fiddle lessons, and who'd brought along dad and two brothers -- and chatted. The entire expedition was a nice little end-of-break break.

But now winter break's over. Time to start the countdown to the Mexico cruise!

Small Stone Mother

Loyal blog readers will remember that I love interesting rocks, especially beach rocks, and will recall how happy I was when a friend sent me some beach pebbles a few months ago. You can imagine my delight, then, when today's mail brought an unexpected package from Tiel Ansari in Oregon, with one of her beautiful poems, a lovely white beach pebble, and the rock shown above.

That rock looks like a goddess figure to me. Does it to you?

I have a history, not only with stones, but with stone mothers. One of my very favorite places is Pyramid Lake here in Nevada, which features this famous Stone Mother; according to legend, her tears over the fragmentation of her family became the saline waters of the lake.

During the summer of 2005, my sister and I took a road trip through central Nevada, to research one of the books I'm still writing. Just past Austin, we stopped to explore the Hickison Petroglyph Recreation Area. Along with cool petroglyphs, we found a figure that immediately looked to me like another stone mother. (I may have been inclined to look for female figures by the fact that many of the petroglyphs depict female genitalia.) My sister took this photo of me standing next to the rock: can you see the Stone Mother's face above me? It's so clear to me when I look at it. (And oh, if I only I were that slim now! But I digress.)

When I saw the Hickison Stone Mother, I'd immediately thought, "I should make some kind of offering." I became absorbed in exploring the landscape, though, and didn't. I was wearing a pair of turquoise earrings my mother had sent West with my sister as a gift for me. After hiking around the park for an hour or two, we went back to the car, and I discovered that one of my earrings was gone. The Stone Mother had taken her offering!

Now I feel as if the Stone Mothers of the world, via Tiel, have made an offering back to me. This Small Stone Mother is ideally suited to wilderness adventures because she has an eye in the middle of her back. No one can sneak up on her, and she sees the past clearly, so she can't be fooled about causes and motivations.

Ever the lady, however, she's also done her hair up in a swirling topknot.

I put my Small Stone Mother in my pocket and headed off to my fiddle lesson, where I'm learning Liz Carroll's beautiful (and haunting, fittingly enough) tune "The Ghost," the first tune in this set. Charlene was a geology major in college, and her husband Josh is getting his masters in geology here at UNR, so I showed Charlene the rock.

She thought it was very cool, and immediately ran with it into Josh's study to show it to him. He grabbed a magnifying glass and we all piled into the bathroom, which has the brightest lights in the house, so he could examine it. He and Charlene turned it back and forth, speaking incomprehensible geologese, until I said, "Hey, that swirl on the top: isn't that a fossilized shell?"

Josh looked at the top and said, "Yes! That's exactly what it is." He explained that the Small Stone Mother is actually half of a gastropod shell (a gastropod is any critter like a snail) which got filled in with stone; the white stripes on the rock are the remaining curves of the shell, and the face in front and eye in back are glimpses of the shell. "Whenever you see curves like that one on top," he said, "you're looking at something biological, not something geological." But of course, the Small Stone Mother is now both.

I'll keep her in my purse, with my cross rock, for luck and guidance. This is why my purse is so heavy: I'm literally lugging rocks around.

Tiel, thank you so much!

Fun!

I just finished teaching a two-hour class on Narrative Medicine to the first-year medical students. I always enjoy this; I even enjoy reading the sixty-odd papers that result from the assignment. My regular classes won't start until next week, but now I feel like I'm warmed up. It's a great way to start the semester.

This week I have to prepare course materials for this semester and revise my essay on using Tolkien to teach trauma theory. On Saturday, instead of going to the hospital, I'll attend a two-hour presentation on mental-health issues in pastoral care, offered by a local priest who's also a psychologist. I think the audience is primarily clergy offering pastoral care in parish settings, but the information should help me at the hospital, too.

Saturday evening will be a real treat. Yesterday, Charlene sent e-mail to all her fiddle students saying that Vishten will be giving a concert in Minden, a small town about an hour south of here. She can't go, but urged all of us not to miss it. So Gary and I ordered tickets online and made a reservation at a restaurant a few blocks from the concert hall. I've driven through Minden several times, but I don't think I've ever stopped there. Maybe for a regional church meeting? I can't remember if that was in Minden or neighboring Gardnerville. Anyway, I like little towns, and it's a very pretty drive, so I'm looking forward to the trip.

Best of all, Minden has a yarn store I haven't visited yet. Bliss! I've told long-suffering Gary that we have to get there early so I can shop.

Today I saw the chiropractor for the first time. He's a nice guy, low-key and matter-of-fact, and what he said made sense to me. He did a physical exam and took x-rays; tomorrow I go back for a discussion of the test results and my first treatment. I'll be curious to see how this goes!

Updates

Amazon's now added the customer reviews to the Kindle Fate of Mice page.

Also, I now have six inches of the new qiviut scarf. Tonight I noticed one mistake -- a row of garter stitch that should have been stockinette -- but it's only three stitches, and I don't think it shows that much (certainly not as much as a mistake in one of the lace panels would), and I don't think it's worth trying to frog an inch and a half to fix it. So I'm leaving it as is.

A knitting error! Proof this item was handmade!

Yesterday I talked to our vet about Bali's shedding problem. She says it's probably stress, and recommended a kitty pheromone, Feliway, that's supposed to relax cats (much better than kitty prozac). The problem is that humans are instructed to put a diffuser of this stuff in the room where the cat hangs out the most, but Bali hangs out all over the place. So I'm not sure what to do. Does anyone have any ideas?

We're expecting a big snowstorm this weekend, with possible accumulations of five inches by Sunday morning. I really, really hope we don't have to cancel our last church service because of weather. That would, well, just suck.

Tonight I listened to Lesson 5 of the Pimsleur Spanish, but my brain froze often enough that I definitely need to repeat it tomorrow. They say you should go ahead if you get about eighty percent of the lesson, but I was at sixty to seventy-five tonight. That's okay; it's still fun, and there's no rush on this. Anything I learn is more than I knew before, so it's all good, although anyone listening to my hideous pronunciation might not think so.

And now, speaking of painful audio experiences, I'm going to practice my viola.

Tam Lin

For many years -- although it seems to have gone by the board lately -- Gary and I had a tradition, on Halloween, of listening to Fairport Convention's classic version of Tam Lin, from their beloved album Liege & Leaf. On our first date, we discovered that we both adored the song Crazy Man Michael from that album. I'd been introduced to the album by Ellen Kushner, who gave me my first place to live in New York City when she rented me the maid's quarters in her gigantic prewar apartment -- in the famous gargoyle building on 110th Street -- for $200 a month in 1987. After Ellen moved to Boston to take her radio job with WGBH, she sent me a cassette tape of Liege & Lief, which I listened to nonstop for months. That album's the soundtrack for part of my life.

At the party where Gary and I met in 1989, we were chatting about NYC architectural details; he'd taken a photography course which involved going around snapping shots of neat buildings. "Y'know that building on 110th Street with the gargoyles?" I said.

"Sure. I have a picture of that building."

"I used to live in that building."

A week or so after the first date, it turned out that the picture he'd taken was one of the writing gargoyle. He'd taken it in 1987, when I was living (and writing) in the building, but when we didn't know each other yet. The photograph hangs in my study now; it's our talisman, kind of.

Now you know our cute-meet story. So, anyway, it turns out that there's a fiddle tune called Tam Lin, and tonight I started trying to learn it from the YouTube video, in honor of Halloween. I'm having great fun butchering the first few measures. I have a new C-string which still sounds like a cross between a foghorn and a moose, and that's not helping much, although I can easily transpose the tune up to the G string. I hope to have both the C-string and the tune in slightly better shape the next time I see Charlene, so she can correct everything I'm doing wrong.

Hospital, Yay!

I just got back from a mini-shift at the hospital (two hours instead of four). As I suspected, it was just what I needed: the work grounds me, makes me feel connected to the divine and to other people, and, generally, reminds me what's important.

Several of you implored me to stay home this weekend because I wasn't feeling well. First of all, the back's improving, and the PT guy didn't put me on any restrictions. But secondly, and more important: at least for me, volunteering isn't a distraction from self-care, but a form of self-care. I don't volunteer because I'm a nice person. Sometimes I'm nice and sometimes I'm not -- people who deal with my daily in the flesh might say I'm more often not, especially when my back hurts! -- but that's not the point. I volunteer for entirely selfish reasons, because the work's good for me. The fact that it's at least sometimes good for other people too is a lovely bonus.

See Frederick Buechner: "The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet." See also research on service as treatment for depression.

I worked two hours instead of four today because I still have eleven hours of grading to do this weekend (this is after six hours yesterday), but I've vowed to myself that if I'm away from the hospital entirely, it will be because I'm ill or out of town, not because I have mounds of papers to grade.

Not surprisingly, though, two-hour shifts are less tiring than four-hour ones. If I get my sabbatical next year (crossing all toes and fingers here, which makes typing quite the challenge), I may very well break up my four hours per week -- which is what the hospital asks of volunteers, although they're very flexible about it -- into two two-hour shifts. That will also allow me to see more patients, since the ED population often doesn't change that much in four hours. During the academic year, though, I'm pretty much stuck with a four-hour shift on Saturdays: other days are too problematic because of teaching, committee meetings, prep, church, and fiddle lessons.

Speaking of which, yesterday I had my first fiddle lesson in two weeks. Because of the back crud, I'd only been able to practice three days since my last lesson, but Charlene was very kind about my progress (or lack thereof).

Right. On to the mounds of grading.

Upshot

The MRI was essentially normal: some degenerative disc stuff, but nothing unusual for my age and nothing that would account for the severity of this latest episode. My physical-therapy guy informed me briskly that my problem was a flattened lumbar curve, aggravated by tight hamstrings, and gave me a bunch of exercises to do, along with stern instructions that I am never to sit back in a comfortable chair again, but must always perch on the edge and maintain the proper curve of my spine. He thinks he'll only need to see me for two weeks.

Okay, so this is all good news, although the exercises have made me so sore that I just had to take a pain pill for the first time in three days. Why, then, am I not happy? Well, I still hurt, for one thing. Also, I like comfy chairs, and the idea of giving them up for life doesn't sit well, as it were. And the PT guy's efficiency made me feel like a pot being stirred on a stove: he had five of us in there at once and, with the help of an assistant, went from one station to the next, poking and prodding and flexing and instructing. This doesn't matter if his exercises work, of course -- and the cost per visit is a mere $20, a real blessing after the almost-$700 MRI -- but . . . well, I guess I was craving comfort, and that wasn't it. I was looking in the wrong place, of course, and that's my problem, not his.

A lot of this is the blasted grief issues, which probably have a whole lot to do with the severity of the current episode. At the MRI place, I had a long conversation with the receptionist, whose husband died suddenly nineteen years ago and who said she can still remember every detail of that day. She was very sympathetic to my recent losses. So was the lady who cut my hair today, who's a cat person and showed me pictures of her cats after I told her about Harley. So was my eye doctor, who was extra sympathetic because our vision coverage is decreasing drastically in July. I'm getting new glasses. I hope they last a while, since this is the last time my insurance will help pay for them! (And they were almost $500 even after insurance.)

Okay, I'm whining. (Gee, y'think?) Obviously I'm a prime candidate for that grief retreat a week from Saturday! But I'm also seriously considering looking into some non-Western treatments. A few years ago I talked to a friend who's a family physician about "alternative medicine;" she declared all of it bunk, but did admit, somewhat grudgingly, that any benefits patients receive from these treatments result largely from the fact that the practioners actually listen.

Gee, y'think?

A few years ago I had some acupuncture treatments. They helped my sinuses a lot; I stopped going because I intensely disliked the practitioner (I found his politics appalling and his personality arrogant), and also because he insisted on my taking Chinese herbs that did nothing for me. But I was standing on line at the grocery store today, thinking idly about maybe trying to find another acupuncture person, when I spotted -- in the rack with People and the Weekly World News -- the Mayo Clinic's Guide to Alternative Medicine 2011.

Acupuncture's number one on their "top ten" list (they offer acupuncture at the Mayo Clinic itself), and they say it can help with lower back pain. They also recommended guided imagery, hypnosis, massage, meditation, music therapy, spinal manipulation, spirituality, tai chi, and yoga -- in that order -- for various ailments.

So I'm not going to stop my PT exercises, but I may very well look into acupuncture in addition, especially since my allergies are still in overdrive and the sinuses could use some help. In the meantime, I haven't yet used my sister's birthday gift of a ninety-minute massage at my health club, so I'll try to do that in the next few weeks, too.

Does practicing the viola count as music therapy, even when you haven't been able to pick up the instrument for weeks because of back pain, so that when you do pick it up again, it sounds like a deranged animal being dipped into molten lead?

I hope to get back to the hospital on Saturday. That should help, too; volunteer shifts are an excellent way of regaining perspective.

Summation

So, kinda crazy week. Saturday morning I woke up at three or so and couldn't get back to sleep. I'd only gotten three hours of sleep, not enough by any definition. I finally got up, got a few papers graded after I'd dropped Gary off at the balloon party, took a nap, and went to the hospital for two hours. I was too tired to be there, and knew it, but I really wanted to go, because it was 9/11. My compromise was to work for two hours instead of four. On my way to the hospital, I passed a fire truck and waved, and one of the firefolk waved back. I bet they got a lot of that, on Saturday.

It's good I went; there were some folks who had a slightly easier time because I was there, I think, although I was definitely spacey. I responded to a code to find a staff chaplain already there, waiting outside the room while every medical provider in the building worked away inside. The chaplain peered at me and said, "Are you all right?" When I told him I was zonked on allergies, allergy meds and lack of sleep, he looked alarmed and said, "Go home! Take care of yourself!" But I am glad I was there, if only for a little while.

So: worked the two hours, went home, took another nap, got up, ate dinner, and went to the recital, which was glorious. Woke up Sunday morning in plenty of time for church, but got there to discover that according to the bulletin, our rector was preaching. I walked up to him and said, "Hey, I thought I was preaching today."

"No, I am."

I started to get upset; I'd expected him to tell me that the secretary had just put the wrong name in the bulletin. "What happened? I was supposed to preach. We talked about it over e-mail -- "

"I've already prepared a homily," he snapped.

"So have I!" I could hear the whine in my voice. "And it's my last chance!"

To my intense relief, he let me do it, although I don't think he was happy. Hey, I understand. (Two other folks on the preaching staff had thought I was preaching, too, so I don't think I'm crazy.) The homily went well and was well received. Afterwards, wired, I swam for half an hour and then came home to try to get work done, with very poor results. The push of the previous few days had done me in.

Monday my new computer came, but the plate on the front of it didn't fit properly, which made ports difficult to use. Also, I got a registered letter from the DMV saying that my registration would be suspended as of 9/30 because I hadn't responded to their request for insurance verification. What the #@!*? I never got a request for insurance verification! But since I only saw the letter after I got home from work, I couldn't do anything about it until yesterday.

Yesterday I called my insurance company. She said they've been having a lot of trouble with the DMV lately, and she knew exactly which forms to use to fix the probem, but it turned out that at least part of the problem came from the fact that the insurance agency had the last digit of my VIN wrong. I have no idea when that happened, but it's fixed now, and supposedly my registration should also be reinstated.

Meanwhile, a computer person arrived and installed a new faceplate free of charge -- the problem was a known issue -- and my new copy of WordPerfect came, which meant the machine was up and ready to use. Yay! When I wasn't on the phone with the insurance agency or running errands at work, I got fifteen papers graded, although I had to stay up until one to get that done.

This morning I went for a walk, got my remaining bit of class prep done, and drove to work, where classes went fine. I came home to discover that my new webcam had arrived; Gary made a very funny test video I'll post if Blogger will accept that large a file. (Turns out it won't: I tried. Nertz!) At 6:20, Katharine picked me up to drive me to Scrabble night, a tradition she has with friends in which I'm now included. The four of us had a lovely potluck dinner. I won the Scrabble game, to my own surprise; I'm a good player, but two of them are demon players. I got lucky with tiles and timing.

Now I'm home again, looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow, spending some time with my Kindle, reminding myself how to knit (which I haven't done in a week) and practicing the viola (which I haven't done for two days, although I'm delighted to report that YouTube has a bunch of free fiddle lessons). I also have to get work done and run various errands, but this weekend should be much less pressured than last.

Thanks be to God!

The Right Tool for the Job

This is a very high-pressure weekend. I have about 150 pages of grading (some of which is already done, but much of which I still have to do), and both yesterday and today I had meetings at work, and on Sunday I'm preaching for the last time at church. (The last time in my parish before it closes, anyway, and for all I know, the last time ever.) I wrote the homily yesterday, weeping as I typed; atheist Gary loves it, and I hope my congregation will too. Still, that was several hours when I wasn't grading.

Plus it's balloon weekend, so very early tomorrow there's a balloon-watching party Gary and I usually go to, but I also go to the hospital on Saturdays, and two good friends in the music department are giving a recital-followed-by-reception tomorrow evening.

And my allergies have been really horrible. This morning I woke up and promptly went off on a long sneezing fit, and my condition just got worse as the day progressed. I sat slit-eyed, foggy-brained, shivering and sniffling through both meetings today, even though I took my Zertec this morning. I'd wanted to attend a friend's literary reading this afternoon (on top of everything else!) but begged off because I felt so rotten.

Obviously, something has to give. If I still feel allergic tomorrow, I'll probably skip both the party and my hospital shift to stay home and grade, although I'll go to the recital unless I can't get out of bed. If I feel better tomorrow -- as I fervently hope I will -- I'll probably drop Gary at the party and dash to the hospital for an early shift so I can get some grading done between that and the recital.

Needless to say, I'm feeling pressured and cranky, although a lot of this is my own fault. I could have scheduled a different preaching date and a different paper due date: I just wasn't thinking. There's no way I could have foreseen being so slowed down by pollen, though. (And why am I taking the time to blog? Hey, all God's critters gotta vent.)

So, anyway, yesterday I was trying to get work done and my computer kept seizing up. I use my netbook, docked to a full-sized monitor, as my main computer. When I got the netbook, I knew it would be slower than a desktop, but I didn't think I'd care.

Yesterday, I cared. I finally hollered out to Gary something on the order of, "Damn the money! I need a real computer!" So he ordered me a Dell desktop: not too pricy, but still another hit on my money from Mom. (I also still have to fill out the financial paperwork from the lawyer so I can get the money from Mom, but that won't happen this week.) This isn't difficult to justify, though. I'm a writer and a professor. I need a computer that doesn't take a week to boot up and freeze whenever I'm trying to work with multiple windows.

Today after the work meetings, I went to my friendly neighborhood supermarket pharmacy to get eye drops. While I was there, I asked the pharmacist what I could take on top of the Zertec that wouldn't knock me out. (Forget Benedryl: you might as well just shoot me with an elephant tranquilizer.) On the advice of the pharmacist, I'm now on a 24-hour Sudafed pill. It's made me spacy and dizzy, but I can breathe, and I've gotten some work done.

Meanwhile, I took more time I didn't have to race down to the music store and pick up the new shoulder rest, which had finally come in. It indeed works much better than my old violin rest! (And yes, I practiced for thirty minutes: more time I didn't have.)

Okay, so friends and family keep telling me I'm doing too much. If I were sensible, I'd just cancel my ER shift, which may happen anyway, but I really don't want to, since I love the work. And there's no way I'm missing the recital. But I've neither knit nor Kindled in days, and for me, those are real sacrifices!

And now, having vented, I'm going to grade one more paper before I go to bed.

Birthday Report

I had a splendid fiftieth birthday, I must say. Upwards of fifty people came to the party yesterday, despite a lot of cancellations because of illness (there seems to be a nasty stomach bug going around, and several friends' kids have come down with strep: welcome to the beginning of school!). We had a lot of great food -- much of it thanks to my brilliant-chef husband -- plenteous beverages, and fabulous music from Charlene. As you can see from the photographs below, we also had near-perfect weather.

Three things made me especially happy. First: Some friends from church brought their grown daughter, who's developmentally disabled. She has a hard time socializing, but she loved the music. When Charlene started playing, her face lit up and her feet started tapping, and then she got up and started dancing. When she saw that no one else was dancing, though, she sat down again. I'm never brave enough to dance in public, but I went up and asked her if she wanted to dance, and she did, so the two of us got up and hopped happily around. A third person -- a friend with much better coordination than either of us -- danced too. We were the only three people who danced, but it made me feel really good to be able to help bring some joy to our friends' daughter, and she taught me something about unselfconscious celebration.

Second: The guests included two church friends I haven't seen for a really long time, who've been estranged from church for one reason or another. It felt healing to see them there and to see them connecting with other people.

Third: One of the abovementioned church friends, as she was leaving, told me, "If you can start studying the fiddle in your late forties, I guess I can start taking voice lessons in my fifties!" She's never had formal voice training, despite singing in choirs for years. Our friend Katharine teaches voice, and my friend from church had talked to her, and it sounds like she'll be starting lessons soon. This makes me happy; perhaps my fiddle project has done the larger world some good even if I'll never -- as is almost certainly true -- be fit to play for any kind of audience.

I'd told people not to bring gifts, but some people brought them anyhow. The cats made out like crazy: birthday-cat Figaro got more catnip, treats, and toy mice than he and the other two beasts will be able to destroy for several years, which is really saying something. Katharine gave us a humongous zucchini from her garden, with a gold ribbon wrapped around it, and a pretty potted plant. (Katharine's determined to turn me into a gardener, even though I've told her that plants die if I look at them.) My friend Judie brought us another kind of squash, the name of which I forget. Our friends Stephanie and Gary, who just got back from Alaska, seem to have bought out the state; they brought me chocolate from Alaska, soap from Alaska, an Alaska mug, an adorable moose earring-and-necklace set, and a set of very unusual buttons made from bits of bone and antler (I'm sure all this stuff was humanely harvested). Stephanie was anxious to know if I could use the buttons in my knitting. I'll certainly try! Now I have extra motivation to make that cardigan Gary's been asking for.

Speaking of knitting, my friend Sheila from the VA, who's a fabulous knitter, made me socks! Ironically, they're the same lace pattern I'm using in a pair I'm making, although Sheila's are much nicer. I can't wait for colder weather so I can wear them.

I also got a ton of really wonderful cards, some of which were amazingly creative. One friend printed photos from this blog to make a card for Figgy. Sweet!

We got at least half a dozen bottles of nice wine, along with homemade cider from Charlene's husband. I drink very little, but Gary will certainly enjoy all this. Someone -- and I wish I could remember who -- brought me a chocolate dessert wine from a Christian vinyard in California. This sounded so intriguing that I just had to try it, so I had a small glass last night. It's profoundly yummy. Since I hardly ever drink, it knocked me right out, but I plan to enjoy small bits of it on evenings when I don't need to do anything but go to sleep.

Our friend Wendy, who'd flown in from Seattle and was staying with us, was incredibly helpful with set-up and clean-up. The whole thing would have been much more stressful if she hadn't been there.

This morning, my actual birthday, Gary gave me a CD of baroque music played on viola. The three of us went out for breakfast, and then we hiked on the mountain across the street (photos below). Gary had mapped out a new route that took us into a beautiful canyon and then up a hillside with striking stands of pine trees (unfortunately, I didn't get photos because my camera was out of room). Today's high winds made walking more difficult than usual, and we were out for two and a half hours -- the most exercise I've gotten since well before my recent knee problems -- so I was pretty exhausted when we got home. Also sore. I took Tylenol (since ibuprofen messes up my stomach) and feel better now, but we'll see how I do tomorrow.

During the hike, my sister called me on my cellphone to wish me happy birthday. We got home to find a package from my friend Ellen, who sent me a sarong from Hawai'i: pink and purple batik in a floral pattern, very pretty indeed. Gary wanted to put it on the wall, but I want to wear it as a shawl, and since it's my present, I win!

We had dinner -- half of Katharine's zucchini in a stir-fry -- and then took Wendy to the airport. It was incredibly generous for her to fly down here for two days just for my party, and it was great to see her. She's a therapist, so we spent a fair amount of time talking about my parents (we might have done that even if she weren't a therapist, but her occupation lent extra gravitas to the conversations).

Although I thought about, and missed, both of my parents today, I think I did a great job planning a birthday celebration that left me more happy than sad. I'm nervous about Christmas, though: the first Christmas without either parent and without my old parish. I'll just barely have started going to another church and probably won't feel fully at home there yet (and I'll miss my old church even if I do). Gary hates Christmas and would rather ignore the entire season, but I love it and want to do something to recognize it. I also really want to be with Gary, though. I'd thought about going to Philly to be with my sister -- and that may still happen -- but Gary's especially allergic to this kind of family holiday, and if I'm going into a sabbatical year on two-thirds salary, spending the money to fly us, or even just me, across the country seems unwise.

I talked to Wendy about all this, and she said that it's important for me to make plans for the holiday, to have something to do that will make me happy. I'd already known that, but talking to her underscored the point. This morning it occurred to me that, weather permitting, I'd really like to drive to San Francisco for Christmas. Gary likes that idea. We could stay in the hotel by the beach we found when Dad was in the VA hospital there: walk by the water, hike in the Presidio, eat good food. If my friend Ellen's in town, we can spend some time with her and the kids. It won't be a churchy Christmas, and it certainly won't be the family Christmas I've missed so much over the last few years, but it will be a new tradition rather than an emptiness, if that makes sense. The ocean always makes me feel better -- partly because it's one of the places where I feel the presence of God most strongly -- and I have a hunch that listening to surf and smelling salt spray will be just what I need, in through there.

Room for Improvement

Today my new Kindle cover arrived. It's apple-green leather, very pretty. I don't yet have a Kindle to put in it -- they haven't even sent me an estimated shipping date -- but the cover pleases me anyway.

So does Viviana Viola. I practiced for at least ninety minutes today when I should have been doing other things, like writing. This is partly because I was teaching myself a new tune, the Sportsman's Hornpipe, which you can hear (on the viola!) on this page if you scroll down to the second video clip.

It's a lovely tune, and also fairly easy, and I picked the notes up quickly, although I'm fudging the ending a bit and hope Charlene can help me with it on Friday. The lady in the video of course plays it infinitely better than I do. No one but me would recognize it when I play it, but I hope that will change with practice. If I were still playing Felicity, I know the tune would already be in much better shape, but I need to be patient. I played Felicity for almost a year and I've been playing Viviana for less than a week -- and won't have a proper shoulder rest until Thursday -- so of course the sound's much rougher.

Yesterday I discovered that my BlackBerry has a "voice notes" feature, so this evening I tried recording snippets of myself playing to see if the sound quality's better than on the little voice recorder Gary gave me several Christmases ago. On that recorder, Felicity sounded like an accordian; on this one, Viviana sounds like a cross between a trumpet and a kazoo. I'm not sure this is an improvement, but if I ever get a decent recording of myself playing (which would require both competent playing and a decent recorder), I'll post it.

Listening to what I'd recorded was really painful, and showed me how far I have to go. Playing, I'd thought I sounded better than that. I think this is the dynamic I talk about with my writing students, where the story we want to tell is exciting and beautiful and makes perfect sense in our heads, but becomes garbled and dreary when we try to put it on paper. As I also tell my students, though, being aware of that gap is a good sign, because it means that we know we have to improve, and that's the first step in actually doing so.

I hope that when I've been playing Viviana a year, I'll sound a lot better. Even now, though, she makes me happy.

Square One

Last week, seven inches into a gift sock for a friend, I realized that I'd been knitting the lace pattern wrong. Nothing for it but to rip the whole thing and start from scratch with a new cast-on. I'm now almost up to where I was when I realized my mistake, and the sock indeed looks much nicer. (Luckily, I realized my error when I was still on the first sock!)

Last night, I settled down to work on the novel for the first time in over a month, and couldn't produce a word. Part of this is because the book's about the aftermath of a woman's death, and she has a son, and since I just lost my own mother, the material hits too close to home right now. In time, my own experience will, I hope, make the book better, but my nerves need to toughen up a bit first.

I was originally supposed to deliver the completed manuscript September 1. Obviously, that's not happening, and my agent and editor are being very understanding. But one of the reasons I couldn't write last night, quite aside from exposed nerve endings, was because what I'd written most recently sucks -- me? mince words? -- and I couldn't stand the idea of throwing good writing after bad, as it were.

When I woke up this morning, I realized that what I need to do is start the book again from the beginning, just like I did with the sock. Two hundred pages of a novel is a slightly bigger deal than seven inches of knitting, true, but I always knew I'd have to go back and make major revisions. I'd initially planned to finish the first draft and then revise the whole thing, but I can't finish the book without a better sense of what the new material will look like, so instead of drafting a hundred pages destined for the trash, I'll go back to the beginning now. With any luck, I can salvage chunks of the existing two hundred pages.

Meanwhile, I'm back to working on really basic fiddle skills, too, like proper posture and hand positions. I'd developed some sloppy habits on Felicity that won't work on Viviana. In the long run, this is for the best, even if it's frustrating right now. I'm trying to practice an hour a day, but until I get a proper shoulder rest, I'll have to break that into half-hour or fifteen-minute chunks. I did a solid hour this afternoon, and my back's letting me know about it.

Tim's supposed to get a Kun viola rest in next week. (He's including that, along with the new bow and strings, in the purchase price.) I tossed the funky shoulder rest he gave me because it scratched the viola's varnish, although not seriously. My Kun violin rest sort of works, if I stretch it as far as it will go and wrap it in flannel so it won't mark the back of the instrument, but it really doesn't provide enough support, and I'll be very happy to have the right equipment.

Flask sent me sheet music of a viola tune for my birthday (I think she wrote the tune, too!). How incredibly sweet is that? But since I play by ear and don't read music -- not all that unusual in the folk world, which is an aural tradition more than a written one -- I'm hoping that she or Charlene can send me a soundfile.

And yeah, I know I need to learn to read music at some point. But Charlene doesn't seem concerned (she's pleased with how quickly I pick up tunes by ear), and it's not one of my top priorities. After I finish the book, maybe.

Goodies!

Meet Viviana Viola. She's a 16-inch Ji, supposedly new (although her interior label is blank, which is a bit disconcerting). She has beautiful tone and projects wonderfully, which would be better news for those in the immediate vicinity if I were a better player. She's not a rental.

You may recall that I planned to meet Charlene at the music store today to pick out a 15-inch rental. What happened?

Well, they were out of rentals, this being rental season. They'll get more in, but in the meantime, I wanted to test out a viola to see if I'd actually want to play one. Tim, the luthier, said he didn't have any upstairs, but went downstairs to look. He didn't have any downstairs, either. "Do you have any violas I can try?" I asked him. He said he had a 16.

Charlene and I looked at each other and shrugged. We didn't even think I'd be able to hold the thing, but heck, we were there. So Tim handed me the 16, and I could hold it fine. (I have long arms for my size, it turns out.) He handed me a bow. I started playing and swooned. I loved the sound of the instrument. Tim and Charlene, watching me, grinned, and began a lively conversation in incomprehensible musician-speak about what a good instrument this is. Tim gets a lot of Chinese instruments in, but this is the best of its type he's ever seen; the balance and resonance and tone and timbre and yada yada yada are all excellent, and furthermore, yada yada. I wasn't paying very close attention to them, because I was happily sounding out tunes (which I could sound out fine even though this instrument's two inches longer than the one I'm used to).

I stopped playing long enough to ask Tim, "So, um, how much would this one cost?"

"That one's eight hundred dollars."

I probably turned an interesting shade of gray. "Oh. Will the amount I've already paid towards the rental count towards that?"

Alas, no. This instrument isn't a rental. But Tim said he would give me a better set of strings, a shoulder rest, and a new bow.

I chewed my lip. I played the viola. I handed the viola over to Charlene and Tim, who fussed over it and praised it and pointed out that no $800 rental instrument would be half this good. "This is a real instrument," Charlene said firmly, handing it back to me. "And look! It comes with the kind of case you like, with backpack straps!"

I hemmed and hawed. I tried to call Gary, but he wasn't home. I played the viola some more and gazed longingly at it when Tim took it away for a moment. "Let's do this," he said. "I'll put better strings on her, and you can take her home overnight and see what you think."

I perked right up. Charlene, beaming, said, "It's so nice to see you happy!" (She's seen more than her share of unhappy Susan.) "You'll have to name her. Have you started thinking about new baby names?"

Charlene had clearly made up her mind, even if I wasn't quite there yet. Or rather, I was, but I was worried about Gary's reaction. And Gary's reaction, when I reached him on the phone as I drove to the gym, indeed involved a fair amount of sputtering. I was thinking of doing what? What the hey? Couldn't I just wait for them to get the rentals in? "It's expensive," I told him, craftily not naming the amount, "but the tone's gorgeous, and I can already more or less play the thing, and Charlene clearly thinks I should go for it."

After swimming, I went back to the music store to pick up my viola, as I was already thinking of her. (She doesn't smell as good as Felicity Fiddle, but that's the only downside.) When I got her home, Gary was immediately impressed by the tone, but said warily, "And how much does this cost?"

"Eight hundred."

"Oh! When you said 'very expensive,' I was imagining three thousand."

That's what I'd been hoping. "And you know," I said -- and I'd really only just thought of this -- "the purchase cost of the violin is $700. This is only a hundred more."

Viewed that way, the viola seems almost reasonable. Eight hundred's still a heckuva lot of money, especially on top of what I've already shelled out for the violin rental, and extra especially because this will never be more than a hobby for me, but, well, I am getting a small inheritance from my mother. I'd planned to put all of it into the emergency medical fund, but I think playing Viviana will be good for my health. Although she certainly is heavier than Felicity, so I foresee some aching neck and shoulder muscles in my future.

But never fear! Today's mail brought my birthday gifts from my sister: a very generous gift certificate to my favorite yarn store and a gift card for a ninety-minute massage at my health club. Yay!

I also got a lovely card from my friend Sherry, our priest who moved to Tucson. I made her socks before she left, and she plans to take them on an upcoming trip to France with her husband. She and Pete are in the process of buying a townhouse; in the meantime, they've been renting a cottage. Sherry's seen a coyote and a bobcat in their yard. I'm jealous! I've seen coyote around here, but never bobcat. Not, I know, that one wants to see a bobcat at very close range, but they're certainly beautiful animals.

Meanwhile, one of Charlene's bands was playing at a local rock club tonight, so Gary and I decided to go. We walked past someone who called out, "Do you need tickets?" He had too many, and gave us two for free. He also directed us to the entrance, which we were having some trouble finding. To get into this place, you walk down an alleyway, past a large sign listing the rules -- which include no weapons and no gang insignia -- and have a paper bracelet put on your wrist by an extremely large bouncer while someone else takes your ticket. Inside, we blinked our way through a cavernous dimness with very few seats. What seats there were, guarded by more bouncers, cost extra.

Gary and I made our way up to the balcony so we could lean against the railing, and talked about whether we'd ever been to a venue like this. We used to go to folk clubs in New York, but they had lots of seating. A former boyfriend and I spent a summer dancing at disco clubs like Limelight (using free passes scored from local boutiques), which featured the same style of bouncer. Another former boyfriend -- who spent some time working as a bouncer himself, come to think of it -- was a roadie for a rock band. He got me into one of their shows and, later, got me backstage, where the headliner politely offered me cocaine (hey, it was the eighties) which I just as politely declined. That occasion was probably the closest I'd come to any setting like this.

Charlene's band, which is really someone else's band, opened. Everything was turned up to eleven. When we could hear Charlene, we were really happy, but she's the best thing in that band by far, and she didn't have nearly enough to do, and she periodically got drowned out by the other instruments.

After the set, I turned to Gary, who was massaging his ears. "Do you want to stay?" I asked him. He couldn't hear me.

No, he didn't want to stay. His ears hurt already. We agreed, somewhat sadly, that we're Just Too Old For This Kind of Thing. So we left, making our way through a much thicker crowd than had been there when we arrived, and drove home, where I practiced playing Viviana.

She's a beauty. The bow Tim lent me is slightly warped, so she'll sound even better with the good one he's ordered: also, she'll be more comfortable when I get the Kun shoulder rest he's expecting. Right now I'm using a bizarre, very strange looking shoulder rest, provenance unknown, that Tim had lying around the shop: it features a worn velvet pad, ornate iron curlicues, and little rubber feet that keep falling off. It's better than nothing, but a Kun will be far superior. I removed my gelrest chinpad from Felicity and put it on Viviana; the pad doesn't fit the chinrest exactly, but still makes the instrument more comfortable to hold. (Does anyone know if I should worry about getting an exact fit? Does the exact fit serve any purpose other than aesthetic?)

Tomorrow I'll go back to the music store, return Felicity -- may she find a loving home elsewhere! -- and buy Viviana. This is a little scary, but also exciting.

She is kinda huge, I have to say. Gary, who's been collecting viola jokes for quite a long time now, has responded with glee to having a viola around, despite the expense. "You could use her as a baseball bat!" he chortled. "Think how much beer she'll hold!"

"Yes, dear. And in a power outage, she'll burn so much longer than Felicity would."

By the way, if anyone knows anything about Ji, please let me know. I found an instrument maker by that name in California, but Viviana's supposedly Chinese.

Mezzo

Yesterday at my fiddle lesson, I mentioned to Charlene that I've always liked the G and D strings the best, and that whenever I learn a tune with lots of A and E strings, I practice transposing it down.

"Ah," she said. "You might want to switch to viola, then."

We talked about it. She brought out her grandmother's old violin, which she's restrung as a mini-viola, and I played it a bit. I like the sound much better than the violin.

Today I called the rental place: I can swap out instruments, no problem, and what I've paid towards the purchase price of my violin will be transferred toward the purchase price of the viola. So on Thursday, Charlene will meet me there and we'll look at instruments.

I'm excited. I've always liked deeper, darker notes better; I prefer mezzo voices to soprano ones, and I'd probably be studying cello if the thing weren't such a bear to lug around. I'm a little nervous about the larger size of the viola and the heavier bow (you can get a viola that's the same size as a 4/4 violin, but the sound probably wouldn't be as good as that of a larger instrument), but if I don't like it, I suppose I can always switch back. We're going to look for a fifteen-inch viola, since sixteen would be a stretch. (Violas don't come in standard sizes the way violions do. Kinda confusing, if you ask me.)

Charlene doesn't seem to think there will be much difference in how I play the instrument, especially since I play it for my own enjoyment rather than in group sessions, where weird keys would be a problem. I'll have to get a new case, shoulder rest, and gel chinpad, but my wall hanger and Dampit should work for a viola too.

Stay tuned (as it were)!