A Gardener’s Story
A few years ago I read a tribute someone had submitted to a literary magazine about her grandfather. It was a beautiful bit of writing, and it delivered a very special and potent message.
The gist of the piece had to do with the grandparent’s success in dealing with what, at first glance, might be considered the limiting effects of aging.
The writer really only knew her grandfather from the time of his retirement from business to his passing, a span of some 30 years. During this time he spent the majority of his energies pursuing his real passion in life, gardening. She recalled how, as a small girl, his garden covered a tremendously large space.
As he advanced in age he began drawing in the outer boundaries of the garden. And she became aware that he moved through the cultivated area more slowly and deliberately with the passing of each year.
She also noticed that he took no less joy and pleasure from gardening than he had when she was a small child. In fact the abundance of his pleasure seemed to grow in inverse proportion to the size of his garden.
Just prior to his death, at 96, his pride and joy rested with a border of roses that ran from his front door out 20 steps or so to the street.
Yesterday this story came to mind as I practiced. Until a week ago I had not practiced for some 6 weeks. Aside from the pain and stiffness in my shoulder I have lost my calluses and the muscle tone in my hands.
Yet when I considered the message of the story I just related, I let go of my frustrated expectations. I just focused on doing what I could do in each moment; completely.
And completely is the operative word. It is tempting to let things slide. To let the little details of form fall by the wayside.
After playing three octave scales for 45 minutes or so, I turned my attention to the Mendelssohn Concerto. Can’t think of a better more satisfying piece of repertoire to rehabilitate a hand.
I played slowly, paying attention to the articulation of each finger – my 3rd finger is particularly weak and lazy at the moment. I want to make sure that the articulation is even through my hand. That each finger rises to the same point and contacts the string with the same clarity.
In the scales I noticed how tempted I was to grip the instrument with my chin to make shifting easier on my arm. It was painful, in fact, to support the violin with my left hand while shifting, and without distorting the hand in the process.
Some might have thought my efforts misguided. The results of my ‘painfully slow’ work, however, spoke for themselves. I managed some remarkably fluid, in tune, and rapid scales as I worked through the initial discomfort and weakness.
During the session I was frequently surprised by the new feelings accompanying my hand movements. I didn’t shy away from the unfamiliar. I did evaluate them in terms of my overall goal of extending the balance and efficiency my hand enjoys in 1st position up to the highest positions on the instrument.
In other words insured that my left arm be the foundation for the hand, allowing the fingers absolute mobility. A foundation that is strong, subtle and resourceful. And because I provide the violin and hand this ultimate security and dependability, my neck and shoulders enjoy an uncompromised level of relaxation and freedom.
No clenching.
By the end of the session I might have fooled even one or two of you into thinking I was fully recovered and back to my former self.
The real moral of the story, if you take one here, is to consume the available potential of each moment without judgment as to how much is awarded you.
One that does this have discovered the secret of abundance.
All the best,
Clayton Haslop
P.S. Speaking of abundance. You will find much practical guidance for your exploration of the violin in each of my courses. For a complete list why not hop over to my list of products and take a gander.
