An Exhale

Growing up I always knew it was the weekend by the music my Dad would have playing on the living room stereo. I'm not sure if these were attempts by him to get me out of bed in the morning, or if he just simply longed to hear a tune as he watched the sun rise. His collection of records and CDs have always been very eclectic, and meant waking some mornings to the bellowing voice of Pavarotti, and on others to the clang of a banjo and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. As a teenager this was at times maddening, but secretly, I loved it all too. Music became an essential part of life and I see it now as a way to bring warmth to a home. A fire in the fireplace and a sonnet on the stereo and my heart is warm.

So when Nathan came home with a new mandolin for me the other day, in the middle of all my angst and worrying, he unlocked something in me I had presently forgotten.

I don't really know how to play the mandolin, but the fingering is the same as the violin, and I've snatched up every book I've come across. Last night, as I tried not to worry about my job, my fingers began to remember long forgotten tunes. I played some old violin pieces from high school and university – bits of Bach and pieces of Vivaldi, a few little things we would play for people’s weddings. I plinked around on that mandolin until my finger tips were burning - that sort of raw ache that only fretted instruments can employ. I'm struggling with strumming it, in the tremolo style, as it is totally different than playing with a bow, but I love it. I love the way the notes ring and hold their place in the air. Like a soft exhale.
A release of something sweet within.

Bach, Winter
by Jane Mead

Bach must have known
how something flutters away
when you turn to face the face
you caught sideways in a mirror
in a hall at dusk
and how the smell of apples
in a bowl can stop the heart
from beating, for an instant,
between sink and stove
in the dead of winter when stars
of ice have spread
across the windows and everything
is perfectly still
until you catch the sound
of something lost and shy
beating its wings
against those darkening stars.
And then: music.