The Soloist

A couple summers ago I saw previews on TV for the movie The Soloist. I thought it looked interesting, but never actively made an effort to watch the movie once it came out. This fall, while looking through old documents on my computer, I found a random list of movies I wanted to watch someday. The Soloist was on the list. When Jonathan said he was sending a package to me, I asked him to add a few movies, including The Soloist. I got my package more than two months after he sent it, while he was visiting, actually. Tonight the power was off, but our generator was running. There was nothing much to do, but I wasn't ready to go to bed yet. So I got out my external hard drive, plugged it in and scrolled through my movies. The Soloist caught my eye. I didn't know what it was about, other than the few short clips I'd seen a year and a half earlier. I knew one of the characters played cello and I had got an impression that there was a reporter involved. I decided to watch it. It was haunting.

(Warning: Parents, grandparents, anyone else who wishes I was more committed to music, maybe now is a good time to stop reading this post.)

To be perfectly honest, I think one of my better decisions about this year was my choice to not bring my violin along with me to Tanzania. This past summer when people asked me if I was going to, I'd say a definite no. My parents asked me quite a few times during the months leading up to my departure. I said no. When Bryn left for Egypt in June she walked through security at the Kelowna airport with her computer case slung over one shoulder and her violin case dangling from the other. I thought about that while I packed to leave. Jonathan was helping me decide what to bring. I asked him if I should reconsider, if my violin should come along. He said it was up to me. I stuck with my earlier conviction. When the car rolled away from my house last August, my violin was safely lying in its case tucked away in a corner of our music room. I thoroughly enjoyed traveling through airports without the bulky case banging against my legs. And from the first week of being in Tanzania on, I've never regretted my decision to leave my violin at home. I know Bryn used her violin a lot in Egypt, at church, at campmeeting, even at a wedding. But (a) she has a degree in music while I struggled to stay excited about being in orchestra during the whole three years at SAU, and (b) TZ is different. Here people don't really play instruments, they sing. And I've really enjoyed experiencing that part of the culture without bringing in my western instrument and disturbing the African heritage.

I've fought my relationship with the violin ever since my mother tricked me into choosing it when I was four. There were days I hated going to lessons instead of being able to go over to my friends houses to play. Days I told my mum I wanted to retire (of course, she recorded these humourous-to-her/serious-to-me instances on the inside cover of my Suzuki music books). Days of standing alone in the music room tears rolling down my cheeks and onto the dark wood of the chin rest as I finished my practicing late at night after neglecting it all day. There were weeks of music institutes during summer. Of learning to sing entire pieces in solfege (not true solfege, the kind where C is always do, D is always re and so on). Of memorizing pages of music. Of preparing for spring music festivals. There were months of scales, arpeggios, double stop thirds, sixths and octaves. Picking studies, orchestral excerpts and unaccompanieds. Choosing List A, B and C pieces (concerto, sonata, show piece). Endless lessons with teachers and appointments with accompanists. Never-ending listening to tapes of ear tests, identifying intervals, clap-backs, play-backs. Whole years of music preparation just to take the Royal Conservatory of Music exams to pass into the next music grade. There were other obligations. Piano lessons, required theory classes, group practices, chamber orchestras, master classes and weekend music workshops. There were struggles to attempt to sight-read, arguments about whether I could or not. There were disappointing festival marks and unsatisfactory RCM exam grades. There were choices to be made: improve my skill, get more musical experience or keep the Sabbath? The latter always won out.

But there were also good memories. Completing a piece satisfactorily and moving on to a new one. Winning first place at festivals. Inventing new versions of hymns to play for church special music. Finding an amazing teacher who I looked up to and respected. Making friends with her other students. Driving with my mum and younger siblings to a town 40-minutes away two or three times a week for lessons and talking about everything under the sun on the trips there and back. Treats after lessons if we'd done well. Eating suppers in the car on the drive home. The annual Vernon Community Music School country fair with face painting, a petting zoo, pie auctions, a cake walk and mini-concerts from all the VCMS student groups. Getting out of school for several days to travel to music festivals in cities several hours ago, Penticton, Kamloops. Everyone staying together at motels, music floating down the halls in the evenings before and after racing to the pool and water slide for a quick reprieve in our rigorous schedules. Sprawled out on the floor or on pews with the other music students in the church balcony, listening to peers performing while working on homework from the days of school we missed. Running our fingers down the list of participants in the program, realizing our turn was coming soon, rushing to the bathroom to change into dress clothes, brush hair and do last-minute warm-ups before it was our turn to perform while others listened from the balcony. Feelings of friendship and support from the other students, even if we competed against each other. Cheering for those who went on to Provincials.

I watched The Soloist expecting to be intrigued by the journalism portrayed in the film. I was, but mostly because I noticed things the reporter did that we were taught in school not to do. (Don't take gifts from your sources {reporter accepted a soda}. Don't give gifts to your sources {source was given a cello, an apartment and private lessons with the first cellist of the LA philharmonic}. But, to be fair, he was a columnist, maybe those rules don't apply to them... Also, some of the gifts were given from column-readers, so I guess that doesn't break the rules.) But it was the music in the story that really drew me in. Nathaniel Anthony Ayers loved music more than anything else in the world. Lived for it. Breathed for it.

I almost understand Mr. Ayers. While I can't honestly say that I ever lived or breathed for music during the 22 years I've played violin, while I'm thoroughly enjoying this year of not being 'Alison, the oldest member of the Quiring trio,' I realized I do miss a part of it. I miss the disobedient thrill of holing up in my room with a classical CD of my piece playing, pretending to practice while really lounging on my bed reading a book behind my music. Although many times it was a pain, I miss unpacking my violin alongside my siblings and trying to come up with a suitable piece for special music the next morning at church, arguing with each other about bowings and who got to play the harmony part. I miss the nervous excitement of sitting in a half-empty church in the middle of a school day waiting for the current performer to finish, the adjudicator to scrawl out notes and advice for improvements and the secretary to call out my name so I could walk to the stage, announce my piece, place my violin under my chin, and draw the bow across the strings so the notes could escape the instrument, escape my brain.

Last year, in my last semester of university, I was absolutely sick of orchestra. I didn't like the pieces. I wasn't impressed that we only went on one short day tour the whole year. I had nothing to say to my stand partner. I wanted out. Now I'm out and I'm enjoy it. But, if I'm completely honest, I also miss it. The camaraderie in rehearsals, the frantic flipping of a page in the middle of an important passage, the hustle of dressing in black and rushing to the church in time for pre-performance last-minute run-throughs. The grinning after the last note, the applause from the audience after seconds of post-completion silence, the simultaneous rise to our feet at a motion from our conductor who whirled around to thank those listening with a series of bows. Moving your chair to part the orchestra like Moses did the Red Sea so she could leave the stage. I don't really miss playing the violin. I don't really miss playing in the Quiring trio. I don't really miss playing in orchestra. But I do miss the feeling of performing, of knowing the piece backwards and forwards, of being part of the rhythm of the piece without even trying.

That being said, I think I'd be quite fine to leave my violin in my case for a while longer yet. I know, I make no sense...
Is this whole musical autobiography one big oxymoron??

Martyr

Sometimes she felt like the martyr of the family. Obviously no one else viewed her that way. She knew that, of course. But she still felt it sometimes. That the rest of the family inadvertently treated her like a martyr, like she was disposable, or worse, like she was invisible. And maybe it was her fault. She tried to take the blame for her younger siblings even if they were at fault (isn't that what a good older sister should do?). Avoided her older siblings if they were in a bad mood (why give them a reason to lash out at her?). Tried to keep the peace during arguments (how would arguing back or joining in help the situation?). And through it all, her stubborn streak and sometimes-argumentative-spirit lay dormant. At least most of the time.

But when the pressure had built up for just too long - when she had been blamed, walked over, ignored far too often - she erupted. Boiling lava pushed through every fissure in her body, pumped from a fathomless well of resentment, hurt and rage. Her face caved in, lips spewing a scalding fury of steam. She tore through the house kicking hallway walls, smashing living room lamps, ripping pictures from hooks and flinging them onto the entryway tiles. She yanked kitchen utensils out of their orderly drawers and heaved them at her family members. She ran to the garage, slamming her wooden baseball bat onto the family's Honda Odyssey, scratching the navy paint, denting the hood, cracking windows, gouging doors.

Or at least she wanted to. But whenever her emotions boiled to the surface, threatening to explode, she scrambled to her room, spent a minute beating her fists into her thick, down pillow and then calmly took out dozens of nail polish bottles and poured her anger and rejection into art decorating the nails of her fingers and toes.

*Trying out that hurricane-inspired writing challenge from Creative Writing I again, but this time using a different natural disaster.

Ask and ye shall receive

Remember this post I wrote last September? Well, in the time since I wrote down my Christmas list I have gotten five of my six wishes. Imagine! If you would have told me the results of my list four months ago I'd never have believed you. Here's the wishes that have been fulfilled and how long after I posted the blog I received them:

• #4. Warm water for my showers - electrician came to fix the heater a week and a half later
• #3. Books - found large supply at the Cradle of Love apartment a 30-second walk from my cottage mere days later and discovered a fairly good bookstore in Arusha a month and a half later
• #2. A safari trip - went on one with three other volunteers three weeks later and another this month
• #1b. To see my family - traveled to Cairo, Egypt during Christmas to visit Bryn nearly three months later
• #1a. To see Jonathan - he randomly and very surprisingly showed up in my office three and a half months later

I am so blessed. Jonathan surprised me by traveling all the way from snowy Maine to burning Tanzania for two weeks. We went on a two-day safari before he whisked me off on a trip to the coast and Pemba Island in the Indian Ocean. And there he proposed! So, in four more months wish #1a will again be granted and I'll get to see Jonathan again. And at a yet-undecided date this summer I'll be privileged enough to be able to see him for as many years to come as God sees fit to give us together. I'm hoping it's decades!

(Because of the five granted wishes, I'm almost wondering when wish #5, the trampoline, will arrive :)

Passion and purpose

One of my passions is reading. I did a writing/editing concentration, but that's because no university I know offers just a plain old reading concentration. I've always loved reading and from the time I learned how to read I always made sure to grab a book whenever I left the house. This practice came in handy at school whenever I had a minute of free time or if I had to accompany one of my parents while they ran errands.

While most of my fellow elementary school students proclaimed recess as their favourite part of the school day, mine was always right after noon hour when we'd rest our arms on our desktops, lay our heads down and listen to the teacher read us a chapter from whatever book we happened to be working our way through. I discovered some of my favourite books this way: Snow Treasures, King of the Wind, My Side of the Mountain, The Chronicles of Narnia. Many other favourites were found during evening family worship as we cuddled together on couches and rocking chairs. Blaze the Cat, Monka the Monkey, The Detective Zach series, the Shadow Creek Ranch series, The Bronze Bow, Treasures of the Snow, Sunlight, Mindy, Song of Eve. And still more books came alive at bedtime when my mum, or occasionally my dad, would pick out a book from our library, climb onto the end of my bed and read as many chapters as I could convince them to. Little House on the Prairie and all the books that sprung from that series, The Ramona books, the Betsy-Tacy-Tib series, Follow My Leader, Daddy Longlegs and countless others. Later, in high school English classes, I fell in love with Light a Single Candle, Hamlet, Les Miserables and more short stories and plays than I can possibly remember.

I love books. Their feel, their smell, the promise of potential a crisp, new book carries, the mystery and intrigue an old, worn book exudes. And I want everyone else to feel the same way about books as I do. I know everyone is different, has different tastes, different hobbies, different passions in life. But what about those people who don't like books, not because they aren't into reading, but because they can't read? For several years I've wanted to do something about the problem of illiteracy. I know the problem is so much bigger than anything I personally can solve, but I could make a difference in the life of one, and maybe in the lives of some.

Last year, in my final semester of university, I took Literary Journalism, a new elective class that sounded fascinating. For my project I decided to write about adult illiteracy in the Chattanooga area. I went to visit an adult reading class, observed everything going on, took copious notes, interviewed the volunteer teachers and then students. I heard their stories, I listened to their hurt. How people made fun of them for mispronouncing words. How reading one small Bible verse in Sunday School was heart-stopping. How little they knew of current events because they were unable to read the newspaper and learn about the world around them. How limited their job options were. How year after year their teachers didn't care, gave up on them without even giving them a chance. How they failed Phonics, Language Arts and English but were passed into the next grade, cast off to become another teacher's problem. And I was furious. But what could I do? A senior journalism major who became interested in their plight to fulfill the requirements of a university course. I finished my 20-page account of the state of literacy in the Chattanooga area, happily graduated and left the country. I spent a blissful summer in the hot, dry Okanagan Valley, preoccupied with swimming and boating, quadding and hanging out with friends, traveling to far-away provinces and preparing for a year of service.

And now I'm here in Tanzania and my thoughts travel back to Southern's School of Journalism and Communication conference room where six students and one teacher struggled to tackle subjects ranging from the Adventist dating scene, to a local cult, to a female-dominated knitting group, to a student missionaries death, to IHOP's nightlife. And illiteracy. What did I learn from my research? How did that information help anyone? What could I be doing now?

I'm feeling unsatisfied. I'm here to do PR for ADRA Tanzania but I'm given no guidance, no advice or suggestions. I think up new ideas for creating more awareness of ADRA TZ, but am told that "we've never done things that way. Let's stick to what we know will work here." I try to adhere to the old standards but am asked to "think outside the box and stir the waters with new ideas." I'm confused and feel purposeless. I want to find something else, something to make me feel like my time here has a purpose, that my year here is not a waste. Not full-time, maybe just one day a week. I want to get back into the literacy scene.

I want to help someone learn to read.
I want to be of service to the people of Tanzania.
But I'm lost and don't know where to start looking for ways to get involved.

Novel writing

It's been more than a month and a half since I last posted on here. Even though I'm not using this as my primarily blog while I'm overseas, that's pretty bad. I thought I would at least post once a month or so. Oh well, I haven't even been doing that great on my SM blog and am now trying to post retroactively.

I found something I almost wish I had known about a month ago. I say almost because, while I love the idea, I don't think it really would have been feasible for me to undertake this November. We've had too many evenings without power (as evidenced by my lack of SM blog posts) and I've been spending a lot of time at the baby home and with the other volunteers after work.

So, have you ever wanted to write a book? I have (and I suspect most of my readers, at least the ones who are subscribed to my blog because of the requirements for Creative Writing and Adv. CW classes, have too). And next November, I think I will. That's right, I think I'm going to join in on National Novel Writing Month and write 50,000 words in the month of November. Now that I've committed to it, its up to you guys to hold me accountable. And to remind me that I made this commitment in the first place. I mean, it is another 11 months until November rolls around again. Who know what other things will be filling my mind until then? So are you up to it? Will you remind me? Hey, better yet...maybe you should just join me and write a novel as well! Yeah, I think you should do it...or at least consider it.

Wishes fulfilled

Who knew, when I wrote down my Christmas list a few weeks ago in the blog post below, that I'd get two of my wish-list items more than two months before Christmas Day! About a week and a half after writing the list an electrician came to the campus and worked on my shower so now I have warm water.  Yay, it's so nice to at least have the option of a warm shower! And then, this past weekend, I was able to go on a three-day safari with three of the volunteers at Cradle of Love Baby Home (which is located on the ADRA campus). It was a wonderful experience, but I won't write about it on here. If you want to know more, you can click the link above or check out some pictures on Facebook (but be patient with that...the internet here makes posting too many pictures pretty difficult so it might take a few days to get all the pictures I want to post up on Facebook). I still can't believe I actually went on safari. Now, I wonder which of those other items I'll get in the near future... ;)

Christmas List

It's a tradition. Every year I start my Christmas list in September. I've been doing it for as long as I can remember writing out my own Christmas list. My methods have changed through the years (from paper and pencil to computer with word processor) but the outcome is still the same; a list packed with things I'd like (clothes), I'd love (books), and I definitely don't need (a trampoline...seriously, I write it down every year). I guess I really don't NEED to write down my list of wants and wishes anymore; my close friends and family members know me well enough by now to have a pretty good handle on what I'd appreciate for presents. But I just can't help myself. Like I said, it's tradition. And I love [most] traditions.

What's really weird is that if I haven't started a Christmas list by around September 25, something inside me just starts feeling just a little off. And this feeling compels me to once again write a list. So today I started my 2010 version. But this year the start of my list looks a little different:

1(a).  To see Jonathan
1(b).  To see my family
2.  A safari trip
3.  Books
4.  Warm water for my showers
5.  Trampoline

Yeah...some things never change :)

ChangeEverything

At work today, while researching about bicycle ambulances for a grant proposal, I happened across ChangeEverything, a site devoted to, you guessed it, positive change. From there I found 43Things, a site that lets you list your goals and network with others who have the same goals as you. I like it when I find interesting websites...especially when they are from my home province!