I brought my laptop to Julia’s year end recital at Berklee. Berklee Institute for Accessible Arts Education.  I will not get much time to sit and type but I was pretty sure I would want to get it out as soon as I sat down. I do and we have some time until recitals begin. 

This year the musical step taken is that Julia will play her cello without me sitting with her. This is the step forward after a few taken back. Back in Madison, when Julia was playing with Martha Vallon, she always played without someone sitting with her; however, when Julia emerged from Covid shutdown, she was not willing to be on the stage alone, not willing to do her own counting or take full responsibility for what she was playing.  I see some change now.  It has been a long way back.

Yesterday, after ukulele ensemble practice, a young man who is a good musician and who helps the younger kids in the ensemble, engaged Miles, ukulele and cello teacher, in a discussion about what a student was playing during rehearsal.  The student discussed was not playing many or possibly any of the assigned cords. Instead, she strummed some of the time on open strings. The young man was disturbed.  He opined that everyone should be playing the music exactly as written.  He noted that there were a number of levels open to uke players, from single base-like cords to the melody line and that the open strings student should have chosen one and worked hard to execute it as perfectly as she was able. This young man is on the spectrum, probably old time Aspergers, good to excellent at what he does, undoubtedly works hard at his music and is rigid as to what he himself and others should be doing.  Miles explained, offered examples and metaphors, and listened.  

The message: every member of the ensemble is undoubtedly doing their best but that rarely means that they are all play in tune, play what is written, or possibly play at all.  

And Miles told the young man: We meet students where they are and we play music together. Some students are playing at the exact same level they played at five years ago, some fly through levels not quite perfecting but moving at lightening speed and some students have a unique, often very slow, learning trajectory. It is a lesson that Julia’s first cello teacher, Martha, and it is a lesson that I can always use hearing again. 

It is the journey, just the journey, not at all the destination because maybe, just maybe, there is no destination. 

It is Mother’s Day, and anyone who has read Chasing Joy for awhile knows my feelings about this holiday (see https://chasingjoy.net/2014/05/09/mothers-day/). And while there are still echos of everything I’ve said in the past, I am mellowing some.  

On Friday, I went with Cheshire and Wilbur and Alfie to the Discovery Museum.  This winter, we have been there many times but the day’s visit was put in jeopardy because Alfie had had a high fever for a few days. A few doses of an antibiotic the day before seemed to stem the fever although he spent the entire visit in the carrier on Cheshire, very quiet and mostly sleeping.  

They were at the museum before I was and not far from the front door.  When I came in, Wilbur saw me and came running to me with his arms open and a smile on his face.  It was the first time I’ve been treated to such a greeting from him.  Is there anything better?  Simple joy, simple joy for both of us. 

Children heal. Cheshire healed so many of my mother wounds with her openness and love. Her trust was extraordinary and her faith in our relationshop never waivered. A surprise birthday party for me arranged by David in our East Village apartment when Cheshire, just 3, greeted me at the door with similar open arms and loud ‘happy birthdays.’  And my favorite picture of Julia running into David’s arms just a week after we met her.  Julia has not always been affectionate—my cat of a child, affectionate on her own terms—but that day, she ran to David, arms open.  Was it the first day of family, the family we were completing on the other side of the world?

Children heal.

And so today, when I would rather be in my garden, planting something—In our early Indianapolis days, Mother’s Day was the day I would put annuals in to garden beds, planting what I bought the day before and just loving the perfection of a day in the dirt, knowing that David would be cooking dinner and there would be some chick flick from the video store on tap for the evening. 

In Madison, I discovered that Mother’s Day was the day that partners and older children choreographed celebration.  And I lived with a child who didn’t even catch on to holiday wishes. It seemed to me at least that it was a day to remind me that my day would never be choreographed again.

There were, however, a year or two, when Julia and I picnicked in an apple orchard on Mother’s Day with younger friends and their very young son. The apple blossoms were always just past bloom and available to fly with any passing breeze. The picture in my mind’s eye is something that Renoir would have painted, a summer banquet with quiche and strawberries.

And today, I sit, listening to recital pieces at Berklee, tears in my eyes, as a woman sings Aba’s Slipping Through My Fingers. It has been, will be a long day—Ukulele ensemble first thing in the morning line up and cello trio the last in the afternoon. Selfishly, I miss being made special today. I wish I didn’t have to make Julia the center of today. Kinda. Still proud of her for playing by herselt today, for getting ready at home without a fuss, and for not complaining that we had a bit of a walk from parking space to performing space. I wish I did not have to be so viligent, that I would not have to worry about who would do this with her when I am not able to. 

After a few rock band pieces, Ed joins us after a morning meeting.  We listen together and he records the trio. I am grateful to be able to listen without devices. Afterwards, after the 9 to almost 3 mostly sitting listening, we walk back to the car to deposit the cello, the uke and the music, and then walk somemore to what can be described as a fancy foot court.  Julia balks at the waslk — it is a bit too far — but perks up with sushi and a Korean rice bowl. The food is excellent, the background music kinda loud, the summer beer which I order is very much needed.  I would not have done this alone with Julia.  Why? Because after the recital day, I am tired and not prepared to execute another plan.  

We finish the meal with New Zealand ice cream which was almost the entire reason for going to that food court.  It is good.  Then, we drive Ed home and go home ourselves.  I am grateful for being made the center of the end of the day.

And still and always, here we are with what is. A little sprinkle of joy, a few tears, missing the life that has so definitely disappeared, enjoying music made by so many people who at another time would not have had the opportunity to learn to make music and then dinner and a beer and ice cream choreographed by my boyfriend. A perfect day in an imperfect way.