One of my very first memories is of seeing—and hearing—the violin. The career musician cradled the instrument, making the full-size fiddle appear far too small in his nimble hands. But when his eyes closed and touched those strings, magic unfolded like honey being poured over my soul. That melody filled my entire being, setting a hunger in my tiny child's heart, a desire that would only be sated once I held a fiddle of my own.
"Mama, can I play the violin?" I asked, wanting to have notes exude from my soul. I could only dream of creating magic for the ears. Then I, too, could somehow offer those melodies as a gift to anyone willing to listen. I would have meaning. I would have a purpose. But I was too young, and my parents thought this desire would fade. Yet, as family members say, I asked nearly every day for over two years. And after so much persistence, my incredible parents paid for music lessons when I was only in kindergarten.
I've played the violin for 36 years now, and that instrument is an extension of my soul, an extra limb, something so coalescent that losing it would be like losing the ability to think. And it's helped me overcome so much.
Even now, as I fight cancer, my fiddle is a saving grace where I transcend worry, pain, sadness, and regret. But, unfortunately, my stamina isn't what it used to be, and shortly after being diagnosed with what doctors are calling "terminal" cancer, I quit playing in the country band I'd been in for years.
"Rough Stock" performed as a group in various Western States at fairs, weddings, funerals, parties, and even openings for huge headliners like Shenandoah and others. But I can't stand for long, and I absolutely can't play for hours on end.
"I miss fiddling on stage," I told a guitarist with whom I previously performed. They had to find another fiddler. She's talented and amazing, and I'm grateful I passed the baton to someone who's so sweet, but I'm also incredibly—weakly—human, and the loss stings at times like a metastasized tumor of its own.
"You'll always have the memories," the guitarist whispered, obviously wishing he could offer more. I cried after the conversation, and it honestly wasn't until this morning that I truly understood the wisdom in his words.
Every morning after my family goes to work and school, I clip Borah's harness and leash on him, sit on our front bench, and let him wander around in our front yard. I love watching Borah play with bugs and leaves. He's Trey's Maine coon, and it's unreal how big and beautiful he's gotten, weighing close to 25 pounds. (Where we got him, from Mermazing Maine Coons, they said he might even reach 35 when he's fully grown—I can't even imagine!)
Anyway, this morning, so many bugs flew around that Borah didn't know what to do with himself; he'd follow one, then get distracted with another. He'd jump and twirl, swiping and rolling in the grass, this massive feline unaware of his powerful, majestic paws. When I wasn't marveling over our gigantic cat, I found myself staring at the bugs. The morning sun shot atop the grass, lighting strings of magic right before my eyes. Wings batted, glinting and sparkling—tiny fairies that bewitched the eyes. I didn't blame Borah for wanting to catch one all for himself. But as I sat there, marveling over the beauty of our world, the guitarist's words returned, and I remembered a gig from years ago.
A trucker let Rough Stock borrow his flatbed trailer. He parked it at a baseball field, and we moved drums, speakers, the electric piano, soundboard, and everything else onto that "stage" so we could perform for a huge "Wheat and Beet Festival."
People complained about the bugs, which had bred to excessiveness. A woman claimed she braved the "swarms" for good guitar solos and homemade root beer. But we all knew we'd suffer the next day after getting eaten alive, and I found myself fiddling and dancing in the hopes that bugs wouldn't bite me.
After the sun fell into a western mountain, something surreal happened. Multicolored stadium lights flared to life, wrapping me in a real-live rainbow… And, when I looked up, bugs darted to the lights. Their clear wings glowed, beating with anticipation. Some ignited in one final act of bravery, others flirted with death, glittering even as they weaved up and around the rainbow. I'd stepped into a Disney movie where my overalls would transform into a ball gown, and I'd meet Mike again—my prince—for the very first time.
So, instead of succumbing to sadness over the fact that I can't perform on stage with bands anymore. Instead of grieving over a season in my life that has clearly ended—something all of us go through—I took my friend's advice and felt grateful for the experience in the first place. To go from that little girl who simply wanted to hold a violin. To hone my craft for years and eventually fiddle for stadiums filled with people… Looking back, it all feels like an unbelievable dream.
Anyway, Borah and those luminescent morning wings reminded me of all that, of how lucky I am.
It might be sad to witness change, but to even see our dreams come to fruition in the first place, well, life… Every bit of it… is such a miracle. I'm so lucky to be breathing. To still be alive. I'm grateful my parents got me a violin and nurtured a little girl's dreams. Just like that stadium filled with glowing wings and the setting sun, you never know what miracle might be ready to light up on the horizon if we're just brave enough to look for it with gratitude in our hearts and minds.
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