tollipop

izzy and her combustible violin

Last night we attended Izzy's end of the year school orchestra concert in which she was the soloist for Wieniawski's Scherzo Tarantelle.

If you listen to the recording, you'll hear the scuffling sounds of children being children, which is to be expected at a large school concert.  

As I listened to Izzy's performance, however, the noises didn't distract me once. I didn't even realize I was in a room with other people.

There are no words to describe the bond I feel with Izzy.  I'm her mum, she's my daughter, but it seems we are also the oldest and dearest of friends.  Being around her is like remembering something from a beautiful dream--ancient, familiar, an endless recollection of goodness and love. 

Here are some of her other friends, one is actually a cousin...they are thrilled when people assume they're sisters.

  
This is the performance...

 
but lest you assume she's all scales and arpeggios, there appears to be a latent heavy metal gene in her makeup which I can only assume comes from her father's side of the family.  

Oh, and her uncles, too.  They would also like to take some of the credit.  

summer of the skirt

Yesterday I forwarded a shipping confirmation to my husband, just to shore up the odds against me forgetting to be home for a very special delivery.

He texted me back: is this about bugs or snakes?

And I was all: in the history of this world I wonder if any husband has ever had occasion to ask such a question of his wife?

But I'm pretty sure the significance was lost on him, dear reader.  I don't think he paused for a moment of silence to let the moment sink in as it properly deserved.

He may have had a moment of silence.  But it wasn't for that.  

I'm not sure how much longer I can keep getting away with this, dear reader. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep posting pictures of fish before someone sends me a mean text demanding a return to the elevated standard of content for which Tollipop is so renowned.

As a matter of fact, yesterday I received a notification someone had unsubscribed from my blog.  That happens every now and then, fair enough, though I couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with the fact I made reference to coyote poop.  

Here's the thing about me: I have no desire to shock.  I have no desire to offend...to the contrary.  I'm not the kind of impish girl who seeks occasion to say words which will make you choke on your cookie or sputter in your tea. 

But I did grow up running with the wolves, dear reader.  Running with the wolves and reading Jane Austen.  So I'm a bit of a study in contrasts when it comes to that: prim and proper, yet roundly able to discuss feral droppings if the situation calls upon me to do so.

Back to my original point: the fact of the matter is, yesterday we got another fish.  

This time, for my dear little Sophie.  

Two weeks ago, her club volleyball season ended and I lost no time in requesting her to practice the piano half an hour every day.

She gave me that scathing look teenagers invented which says: Don't you know I'm 15 going on 30??

So I came back with one designed by the Pentagon which says: Honey, I've got 30 beat by a mile.

At any rate, she complied, a bit grudgingly at first, but before long practicing well over half an hour without even realizing it.  

However, this week volleyball practice started back up and I felt sad, thinking this would mean the end of Sophie's time at the piano.  In fairness to her, the practices are grueling and schoolwork is demanding...she is a very busy girl. 

So imagine my reaction the other day when I returned from an afternoon errand to hear the sounds of a Chopin nocturne floating through the house!  

Sophie was home from volleyball practice and had gone straight to the piano, plunking herself down and churning through miles of Hanon, unlocking the intricacies of Bach, crashing down upon octaves of Gottschalk, Joplin, and Beethoven.

It made me only too happy to let her pick out a fish when she finally asked for one, to say the least.

over the weekend

Everyone was gone.  Everyone, that is, except me and Caroline.

Sophie and Roger went to a volleyball tournament in Reno.  Izzy travelled with her school orchestra to a competition in San Diego.  And Caroline had her first ever volleyball tournament here in town.  

It's been an interesting few days.

For one thing, Caroline's team lost every game.  Just got...demolished.  

Her team was markedly younger than the next youngest team in the tournament, but that fact was cold comfort in the heat of the bloodbath.  

Every day for weeks I've listened to my girl say how excited she was to compete in this tournament.  It was all she could talk about, that and the latest drama going on in On the Banks of Plum Creek.  

And when I say compete, I do mean compete.  Caroline does not show up to prance around the court and dream about unicorns.  She is there to plunder and lay waste. 

So to weather a day long drubbing...was something of a bitter pill to swallow. She wiped away more than a few tears and I gave her more than a few pep talks, telling her she was doing it exactly right: hanging in there, being a good sport, fighting for every point, congratulating her team, rolling the ball under the net, refraining from trash talk or evil eyeing the ref.  

By the end of the day I thought she'd be ready to throw in the towel.  But it turns out she can't wait for the next game.

Izzy called later that evening to say after the competition, in which she'd been the soloist in a concerto played with her school orchestra, the judge asked her to describe what she liked best about her performance.

Izzy, caught off guard and standing on stage in an auditorium filled with peers, said she thought her intonation had been good.  The judge responded by saying her intonation had been one of the weakest aspects of her playing.

I'm not going to sidetrack onto the various tangents this scenario inspired within me, but rather mention my greater curiosity was to know how she'd handled the moment.  There was a time when such a public critique would have made my little Izzy's eyes shimmer.  But over the phone she shrugged it off.  It was no big deal, she said, he was entitled to his opinion.  

I often wonder about this, about helping children navigate bumps in the road without losing hope or thinking their world is falling apart.  

The weekend went on and Caroline and I had a lovely time together.  We watched Ever After.  We played Go Fish for Art.  She slept with me in my bed and at 3:30 this morning, when I had to pick up Izzy from her orchestra trip, I put a pillow and blanket in the back seat of the car and woke Caroline up to come with me.  

When she saw the arrangement, she exclaimed, "Ooooh!  A hotel!"

Sometimes that kid kills me.  She really does.

Seemingly out of nowhere, she mentioned she was bothered by the fact she didn't have many memories of her grandma, who died when Caroline was five. All through the weekend, then, she randomly remembered details about my mom and shared them with me.

Today, as we were setting up chairs for choir practice, she said the last thing she remembered doing with my mom was attending a funeral together.  I stopped what I was doing and asked if she was sure it had been a funeral and she seemed very definite on that point...which is interesting, considering the only funeral she ever attended was my mom's.

She was eager, when Sophie came through the door, to demonstrate how she'd played in her tournament.  

And Sophie knew just how to listen, just how to commiserate.

Tonight my head is full of thoughts...of the sweetness of my youngest, the gift of having her to myself this weekend, of raising resilient children, of teaching sisters to build friendships, and feeling how good it is to have everyone safely back home.  

longing

 

Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again! 
For so the night will more than pay 
The endless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, 
A messenger from radiant climes, 
And smile on thy new world, and be 
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth, 
Come now, and let me dream it truth, 
And part my hair, and kiss my brow, 
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again! 
For so the night will more than pay 
The endless longing of the day. 

                       ~ Matthew Arnold
 

the music: her original

the lyrics: borrowed

her dad: completely smitten

like a star

I wish I could find the words to describe what it's like to be around Izzy.  There is something very special about her, as there is with every person living on this earth...but since I'm around Izzy so much, her presence affects me more deeply.

I guess that's the general impression she leaves with me, being deeply affected. I never really have a casual interaction with Izzy, even if we just say hello in passing.  When I'm around her, I'm always aware of her: how unusual she is, how interesting she is, how funny she is, how Izzy she is...how deeply she affects me.  

She's thirteen but most of the time you wouldn't be able to put an age on her. She's as goofy and weird as something out of Wonderland, she has a whip smart sense of humor, she is thoughtful, compassionate, looking beyond the things of this world, she's shy yet filled with fire, her interests are keen and diverse, and yes, her bedroom looks like a tornado came through it.  

 
Lately she's been interested in learning to play the guitar, so she picked it up and started teaching herself. Whenever I'm in the house and hear the sound of strumming and her beautiful voice lilting through the air, I feel myself stop and reach for it, my heart, my soul...wherever Izzy's presence is, that's where I want to be.

the weekend

It's been busy...filled with music, bridal showers, meetings, volleyball, study groups, movie parties, a run in the desert, choir practice, a trifling amount of laundry...

and one stolen moment with my husband.

Recently I told Sophie I wanted her to play this piece once a day, without the pedal, meticulous and slowly. I don't know why.  Maybe because I think there's some quality in Bach, some brilliant ability to unlock secret passageways in the mind or, in my experience, to untangle those passageways, open a few windows, clear some of the clutter.  

That's what Bach does for me. 

 
I mean it when I say I'm glad Sophie has found such a passion in volleyball.  It was hard to see her let go of the piano but I could see it was by necessity (schedule-wise) and, to be honest, harder for me than it was for her.  

You just have to roll with that, parents, when it happens.  When your child recognizes what moves her, you have to make room.  

Still, I'm insisting on the daily two minutes of Bach.  

What good is being the mum if you don't get to boss anyone around?

over the weekend

Izzy and Caroline participated in a music competition.  Izzy took first place in her division and Caroline got an honorable mention.  Somehow, this discrepancy went over peacefully...aided in part because Caroline loved the color of her ribbon, and also because she loves her sister.  

But she is spoiling to win, that girl. She keeps asking: what does it take?  What do I have to do to win one of these things?

Oh...what is the right answer here?  Should I talk about how it is already a victory, just being prepared to get on that stage?  Or how it is a victory of character, learning to accept defeat without being defeated?  Should I wax jaded and world weary and tell her about the biases of some judges?

Or should I just go with the world's unsexiest answer: hard work.

Honestly, I didn't feel like telling her any of those things.  I already think she works pretty hard at her cello.   I guess she could do more.  But I prefer the balance in her life which allows her to love many things, to come to her cello willingly and work hard during practice time, to enjoy volleyball, reading, writing, baking, and making paper dolls.

I will tell you this--some of the kids participating in music competitions today are working so hard, I'm not sure where their childhood fits into the picture.  And while I am a mother with expectations, I cannot even pretend to want to put my girls into the saddle which gallops at the pace necessary to keep up.  

So.  Izzy won.  She worked hard, but with some degree of balance, her genuine love of music blossoming before my eyes.  It is breathtaking to behold, every day.  

And little Caroline played beautifully on her cello.  She got up there in front of those three stone faced judges, who don't smile or acknowledge the contestants, and did her thing.  I watched them both with an aching in my throat, which I always get when something is unbearably beautiful or sad.

On Sunday night Izzy performed in a concert with the other musicians who'd won their divisions.  I was unable to attend due to a prior committment, but Roger went with the girls and made a recording.  

Her teacher attended and texted me to say Izzy played like an angel...something about that really touched me, as if she understood my disappointment in not being there and wanted to share some of the joy of the moment.

I could write a zillion blog posts and never be able to express how much I love Izzy's teacher.  She is highly skilled, tough yet nurturing, loves animals and has a menagerie in her home, and devotes herself to her students.

I count her influence on Izzy as one of our greatest blessings.

And Izzy's accompanist.  I adore her.  You should see her hands.  You should watch her play...anything. I know enough about music to see her brain works very differently than mine does when she looks at a musical score--she has a way of breaking it down, of recognizing patterns and rhythms in pieces she has never played before.  She reads music in a very advanced way, perhaps in a mathematical way, yet plays with the soul of a poet.

 
So much talent in this world.  So many people making it a beautiful place.  I know there is sorrow, too.  I see it around me every day, it is too easy to find.  

But it is beauty that captures and keeps me.  I see it everywhere, even in the things which make me sad.

lately

Ramen noodles with a dear friend.  That's not even the large size.  The large size you can dive into from a height of twenty feet and still not touch the bottom.  Don't ask me how I know that. 

My suddenly grown up Sophie, leaving with a friend (who calls me mom whenever she comes over and who looks so much like Izzy, I feel like I got a fourth girl) for a volleyball tournament in Phoenix. 

My husband went along the second his schedule freed up.

 
Leaving us with an empty house.  Just me, Caroline, Izzy, and her guitar.

Warming up for a Saturday morning high school orchestra audition.  

High school!  Izzy is growing up, too.

She went in there all by herself and played her little heart out.  

Caroline, who came along as support, fortified herself with two library books just in case, making her a girl after my own heart.

That night we had a movie party and our pick was a unanimous hit.  Afterward, Izzy tried to articulate what she loved about the animation, how it was sort of bizarre and creepy, but in a...

"Delicious way?," I suggested.

"Yes! Deliciously creepy!," she said, satisfied. 

"That's my favorite kind of creepy," I said.

"Mine, too," she replied, and we smiled at each other.

"Mine, too," said Caroline, piping into the conversation, "Deliciously creepy is my favorite kind of creepy, too."

Then we all smiled together and Izzy passed me a chocolate and this became a moment I will look back on when I'm trying to think of a time I was truly and completely happy.  

chanson triste

Tonight I went with Caroline to her cello recital.  On the way there, she was nervous.  She didn't really want to do it.  What if she messed up the middle section?  What if her fingers slipped on the shifts?

I tried to tell her: Caroline, you'll be amazing.  This will be fun.  You'll get up there and play with all the sadness in the universe and my heart will ache with the beauty of your music.

But she wasn't so sure.  What if she couldn't remember the music?

In my head I was thinking: let's cross that bridge if we come to it.  

 
But we didn't come to it.  Instead we came to the moment where my heart ached with the beauty of her music.  The beauty of my little girl who is so earnest and filled with joy, who is truly moved by the sound of her cello, just as she is hungry to get out on the volleyball court and leave a path of destruction in her wake.  

She puts her head on my lap every night as I read her a bedtime story, then dims the lights so I can tell her The Rock-a-Bye Lady, a poem about an old woman who creeps into your room at night, bringing poppies filled with dreams for your slumber.

Nothing odd about that, right?

 
Caroline loves it.  She loves the closeness of such moments.  She is my girl who can talk incessantly, telling me one story from three different angles.  The art of paraphasing is completely lost on her.  Why paraphrase when one can embellish?  Why distill the essence when words can be a feast?

On the way home I tried to tell her how her music had moved me.  She listened, beaming, renewed for another hundred years of music lessons.  She wants to play in more recitals.  She would like to enter more competitions. 

Some days you have to cross bridges.  You have to figure out what to do if your finger slips or you mess up the middle section.  

Some days surprise you with a rally in the final inning. 

It's not always apparent why either way is so, though with a certain degree of self awareness I can usually hazard a pretty good guess.

The main thing is to give it your best shot.  Or sometimes just a shot.  

I'm glad for Caroline it turned out to be a lovely final inning.  

recital

Dear reader, how are you doing?  I don't know if anyone reads Tollipop as regularly as my little brother does and has possibly been feeling the urge to send a threat text telling me to update my blog...I hope such is not the case!  

Beyond the usual busyness of the season, I have been working on a story project and it has interfered with the time I usually spend here.  I'm sorry for that but I at least wanted to mention this much because for some reason I get anxious and feel the need to explain my absences.  

Possibly because my brother threat texts me.  But also because I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten this little tea party altogether.

I will leave you with these clips of Izzy's recent violin recital.  There is no way to express how much I love her teacher, how I would clone and insert her in almost every avenue of our lives if I could.  And how I adore Izzy's musical friends who constantly give her a hard time and try to be taller than her.

  
I am deeply grateful for the gift of music in our home.  It sounds like a concert hall every afternoon, filled with singing voices, with strings and piano, with ukelele and guitar.  And when we aren't making the noise ourselves, I usually turn on the radio.  

 
Last Sunday I was conducting my church choir and the tenor and bass section hummed their parts as I worked with the altos.  We have a magnificent tenor and bass section at the moment.  Breathtaking.  They keep making me forget what I'm doing.

Music: that hum, the ground moving beneath my feet, that swooping, soaring lark in the sky.  

I take it with me wherever I go.