The good's never far from the bad

In some ways right now I am struggling. In other ways, things are great. The juxtaposition of such contrasting feelings honestly makes me queasy at times.

For instance, I went to a memorial/celebration-of-life for a high school friend earlier this month. (My 2026 has been marked by too many funerals. It's a bad trend.) I didn't know Scott well, but he was the kind of person you didn't have to know well in order to love him. We kept up with each other on Facebook. He sent me links to music stories he knew I'd like, and messaged me when a piece of writing I did moved him. He followed the posts I put up about instruments I was building. He was kind and sweet. It's tragic that he died too soon. I'm glad I finally got to meet his husband, who is charming and loves to share stories. I enjoyed seeing my high school friends. We ate excellent pizza. I got to spend some time with my Mom which was good for both of us.

The loss matters because life matters. The bad is a direct result of having appreciated the good.

But I'm finding that less profound than I think I'm supposed to at my age. It's exhausting more than anything. I'm weary of sadness and joy sitting side by side. 

Likewise, the confusion of being continually disgusted and angered by events in the news, but comforted by the generosity of people within my reach is disorienting sometimes. The scope of so much corruption and horror on a national level somehow continues to escalate, and also my neighbors are decent people I count on. If I avoid the news the world seems fine. I'm aware that I'm privileged to be able to tune out the news when it gets to be too much and live in a space that feels okay.

My home has been in disarray since renovation work began back in March. It's hard to feel settled when your environment is anything but. Construction continues on the back half of the house, and has now extended to part of the second floor when it was discovered the terrace above the family room has been leaking for many years. Everything had to stop until roofers could be found. We ended up having to replace the door to the terrace from my oldest daughter's room as part of the fix, and as a result she's "home" from college but living in a spare area of the violin store building. I know in a few months when everything is done and we're enjoying the improvements it will be great, but in the meantime the clutter and the disruption and the noise is getting to me. I'm tired of not being able to find anything, and annoyed at having books piled in the dining room blocking all the natural light. 

I have a kid who is in crisis, which is hard. I won't share stories that aren't mine, but my part of the story involves feeling helpless and sad and worried. Stress dragged out over days and weeks takes a toll. I distract myself with the dog and work and snuggling with my husband as we watch new episodes of Taskmaster, but the underlying sense of having to stave off panic is making me sick. Headaches are back. But then I breathe and look up and the weather is beautiful and the garden is blooming. Work is fine. Many things are going well. But the line about how "You are only as happy as your saddest child" springs to mind often. When there is nothing you can do, how much homage do you pay to grief so that you don't believe you are callous?

I feel like I should be better at accepting that this is the world. That this is life. The good and the bad are both at hand all the time. The trick is knowing how much to pivot from one to the other and to not let the good blind you to things that need attention, or to let the bad to drag you down. I don't feel very good at that trick. I may never be.

How We End

Someone I love has been told they only have a matter of months to live. It is unlikely they will see the year 2025. They may not even see summer.

Many of us have played the hypothetical game in our head of what we would do if we were presented with such news. I have a feeling it's one of those scenarios that is not what we imagine. I remember thinking vaguely long ago that if I ever had a miscarriage that I would probably accept it logically and move on. Two miscarriages taught me otherwise. I also remember being in a gut wrenching situation with one of my kids where I pictured myself at one point being a weepy mess over a particularly hard decision, but when the time came I was simply relieved. When my grandmother died, I was incredibly sad, but I was also surprised to discover that I was set free from holding onto the idea of her as someone crippled by dementia. Since all of her lived in memory I could remember her at her best without betraying reality, and there was joy in that. So I have no idea what it really is to be told you have little time left on this earth.

My first thought about what I would do if given only months to live, has always been something like "Stop doing dishes." But maybe not. Maybe in reality I would embrace the ability to do that while I could. 

Would I focus on myself or others?

It seems like the most appropriate time to be selfish because who would judge you negatively for it? And yet the first thing that pops into my head would be to finish projects for my kids while I could. I've made a violin for both of my older girls, but the one for the last daughter is still in pieces on my bench. I think I would feel desperate to get that done. Along with photo projects, and letters, and making sure they knew the stories behind things I want to leave them. But maybe those pursuits are selfish in their own way.

In the past, I would have said the thought of being faced with a terminal diagnosis would inspire me to travel somewhere. To see something I've put off and always wanted to see. I've never been south of the equator. I've never been to Africa. But would I want to use a small amount of time to do something new or something I already know I love? I think I might resent every minute that I'm stuck in a plane on a runway if I could just be home.

I suppose that's a good measure of how well you're living your life, if you'd be happy with an average day as your last.

I love my life. I like the house we live in, even though there are still a million projects to do in it. I'm happy crawling into bed every night between my husband and my dog. I think at this stage in my life, I would be content to spend my last days at home, or maybe at our cottage my grandparents built. I know my grandfather in his final months spent as much of it at the cottage as he could. My grandmother died in a nursing home, but the last time I spoke to her, in her mind we were having that conversation on the cottage porch. It's a peaceful place.

I've often thought that if we won the lottery (somehow without playing) that I would keep my job. I love my job. I think I might stop doing cello work or bow rehairs, though, since those things tend to provide me with more frustration than joy. (Not because I don't enjoy doing them, they just both take up all my bench surface, which I can't stand. If I had a dedicated cello workspace, and a bow bench where I didn't have to put all those supplies away each time I switched back to instrument work, then I wouldn't mind it. So maybe I should be doing that now somehow?) If I were dying, would I keep working? Possibly. Some of my happiest moments have been spent sipping a cup of hot cocoa on a cold morning while sitting alone at my bench, looking out the windows, and deciding which repairs to tackle first. But maybe I wouldn't get that anymore even if I wanted it. I'd have to help figure out how to shut it all down or pass it on.

Part of me thinks I would like to scramble to put out whatever novel I'm working on. But I also know how much that takes me away from time with other people. That would probably be too big a sacrifice, unless I could convince people I love to hang out near me while I do it. I would hate to leave my books unfinished.

I know sometimes when you're sick, it can actually be harder on the people worried about you. No one likes to feel helpless. No one enjoys survivor guilt. How much would I get to selfishly be as angry and in pain as I really feel, and how much would I choose to spend my time and energy comforting my family and friends instead?

I think about how much it would mean to me to see this person one more time, and accept that the situation is complicated enough that such a visit may be too much of an imposition. They are not obligated to accommodate anyone at this time. I just want them to have whatever brings them comfort.

I like to think it's better to be given time to say goodbye and wrap up any loose ends that need tending. An unexpected end seems crueler. I remember when I was in violin making school, and I had a long commute every day, seeing a story about another driver dying on the freeway, his car crushed between two trucks. It really shook me. I kept thinking about how he likely had food in his fridge he had planned to eat, and maybe a book on his nightstand he'd never know the end to. What if you die wearing an outfit you can't stand? Sounds stupid, but I'd rather go in my favorite cozy sweater.

Contemplating death is very different now than it once was for me. There's something alluring about flirting with ideas of death when you're a teenager that doesn't have the same appeal once you have more days behind you than ahead. The list of people I've lost at this point is getting long. There is weight to those losses somehow. There are days I feel that weight, and it's all I can do not to cry at any given moment.

I dread the losses that are still to come. I feel like they haunt me on the periphery of my daily life. 

Because I think often of the days almost nine years ago when my dad was in hospice. There was so much love and laughter and sorrow and grief all tightly woven together, and we all said we would learn from it. I knew better. I wanted it to be true that we would make more time for each other, and not let the days slip by so easily that years could pass without being able to hug the people that matter, but I knew real life wouldn't allow for that. We get distracted. We get busy.

And in some ways that's all right. That's what life is, the day to day bits and pieces. Being able to make your own breakfast and walk the dog and hang out with someone in front of the TV and wearing a favorite shirt and anticipating the comfort of the pillow you like at the end of the day. 

Hug people while you can. Love them while you can. And remember that the little things are actually the greatest things. If tears are how we know we care, at least I know I care a lot.

Some Days it's Good Just to Breathe

Some days my little violin store is very busy.  Some days it's quiet.

On one side of the store is my bench, with all the instruments hung overhead lined up for repair work, and my tools and varnish and glue.  On the other side of the store is my husband's desk, with the computer, files, paperwork, and bills.  The two sides are equal, and without either half there is no store.

Because all of our children are now in school full day we can finally both work in the violin store for a few hours at the same time.  Until recently we had a tag team approach, where one of us would be home with the kids and the other would try to make progress in the store at the bench or desk.  It's nice as I do repair work to look over and see my husband just a few steps away.  I like that we run our business and our lives together.

I often tell Ian as he's sifting through the receipts and post-it-notes on his desk that for every bit of paper representing a person who came into the store, there were usually three or four other people who left no evidence of their visit.  I spend a lot of time talking to people who are curious about violin making, or want to tell me about a relative who played music, or who simply like the atmosphere of our little shop and want to hang out for a bit.  Sometimes when I'm drowning in repairs I'm not as willing to chat, but most of the time I'm happy to share what I know and I enjoy hearing people's stories.

Today while my husband and I were both working a man came in who looked familiar.  Turns out he'd stopped in a few years back and tried to sell me insurance.  He said he was in the neighborhood and was glad to see that we were still in business.  He was considering taking up violin.  He was concerned that he might be too old for that.

I assured him (the way I do many people who come into my store saying the same thing) that there is no "too old" for music.  He was too old to be a child prodigy, but that was about it.  My oldest adult beginner was 77 and he did just fine and was one of my all time favorite students.  The man told me about the violin music he'd had at his wedding.  That he'd always loved the sound.  I listened, and then gave him more general information about violin and how to get started.  As I talked I continued to work on the violin at my bench, and the man listened and occasionally paced around while looking at things on display.

But there was something about the way this man lingered in my store that was different from most people.  There was something forced in the smile he gave me, as if he had to remind himself to do it.  He seemed distracted and a little lost, but not ready to leave.

Then, as an aside during one of his questions, he mentioned his wife had died.