My fiddle sits in its case in the corner of the living room waiting. It spends a lot of time waiting. Waiting for me to free it from the darkness and bring it to life. Although, really, the fiddle already is alive as the wood breathes, expands and contracts. The strings loosen and go out of tune. The fiddle is flat from lack of use.
The fiddle sits in the corner of the living room calling to me in my unconscious. Making me feel guilty. Telling me to get over being tired. A fiddle isn’t that heavy to pick up. Telling me to put all of that work aside, it will never be done anyway. Time for the fiddle is really time for me. It is a break from all of the other times when I am pulled in different directions.
Sometimes I pick up the fiddle and play obediently. I play for 20 minutes but the time drags. The sounds coming out of the fiddle sound more like cats quarreling in the yard late on a summer night. On these nights, it is unfortunate that the fiddle is played so close to the head. The awful sounds traveling a short distance and filtering through my ears. I finish my time playing and move on to something else.
Sometimes I pick up the fiddle and play musically. I sit in the chair by the window and the sun fills the room and the fiddle glows. I am relaxed. I play one song making mistakes of course. But, as I play and replay the song gets better and smooth maybe almost beautiful. Soon I move onto another song and another. I play along to CDs and enjoy making music. The time floats by and before I know it an hour has gone by.
These musical times are the times that make all those cat-screeching times worthwhile. If only I had more fiddle time.