My violin is calling me.
I have chosen to study music, which is a huge step onto the raging waves for me. I’m terrified that I won’t be good enough.
“What do you want to do with your life?” people often ask. Ultimately, I’d just love to do something. I’d like to sit, wrinkled and smelling of AVON perfume, thinking contentedly about the life I had led.
“But up until that point what would you like to do?”
Well, actually, I’d love to run around in the forest with my colony, playing music every step of the way. 10 minutes of being near an instrument, touching it, playing on it, and I am a happy camper for the rest of the day.
“So why aren’t you playing nonstop, every day?”
Um. This is where it gets sticky. For some reason, I’m afraid of things I love. I would never even consider seeing my favorite musician in concert, I never pursue people that I have huge friend-crushes on, and I avoid eye contact with my fiddle. Is it the fear of rejection? Fear of failure? Insecurity? Stupidity? It could be any and all.
“Shouldn’t you see a psychiatrist for that?”
Nah.
I’m too cool.
So choosing to do music is the first time I have consciously and deliberately chosen to do something so difficult, so passionate, and so…. so BIG AND HUGE AND WONDERFUL.
I can only imagine how my schooling is going to go down. Right now I’m picturing me skulking about in the practice rooms, screaming internally, eyes bloodshot, wanting to tear my face off. How attractive.
The other great news is that my church has generously given me a gift card Christmas gift! With it I am going to buy a ukulele. Or a pennywhistle. Or a metronome (so splurgatory). Or music. Or… a small human that will do my bidding. Oh wait, that’s what children are for.
Oh, and I’m quitting ALL MY JOBS this week. Then I will be a free woman and frolic mightily through the night.
It’s gonna be awesome.
hattie turns some leaves 
You are my favorite.
Buy a ukelele. I am the only person I know who owns a ukelele, besides my sister’s confirmation sponsor.
I love the fiddle. The very sound of it brings tears to my ears. I mean my eyes. I’m in the process of writing a character whose fiddle aids him in surfacing from a deep depression. Sort of. It got him to talk and make eye contact with something other than his soup. Pathetic.