the prodigal returns to practice

Last Wednesday night's cello practice ended in tears. My Inner Critic was in rare form. My mind was wandering a bit, so the Critic said, "Stop that! Sit up straight and pay attention to what you're doing!" I tried, and then my mind wandered again after a bit. So the critic ripped into me. "Why are you doing this anyway you have no focus you're not sitting right your bow grip is still crap you've been at this a year and you still sound horrible you can't even play a scale well let alone an actual piece of music that has any feeling in it so what is the point?" I tried to remind the Critic I'd taken this up to get my brain working again after Lexapro turned me into a fat, lazy, unemotional insomniac. And besides, I love the sound of the cello. Which is when he sat back, crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow, and smirked at me. Which is when the crying started.

So I avoided my cello until today. Maybe I didn't have enough tea that morning. Maybe we both just needed a little space. I don't know. In a small, one-bedroom, one bathroom condo, space is always an issue - I bet the cats would get along better if we all had a bit more room...

Anyway.

I've only ever had a crying spell during cello practice once before, earlier this year. I'm sure I'm in for many more of them the longer I stick with cello playing.

I know things are REALLY bad when I reach the crying stage. I'm not one for regular sob sessions. A fact which has always worried my mother - the whole bottle-it-up-until-you-explode tendency isn't healthy. I know that. Still, it takes a lot of Accumulated Stuff to make me start blubbering, and for it to happen during a cello practice is especially dangerous because I don't want to start associating practice with perfect timing for an emotional meltdown. Practice is supposed to help me avoid them.

In fact, I prefer practice to be a focused and meditative act, however horrible it may sound. Certainly, there can be struggle in it. Hell, I struggle to get into and out of poses while remembering to breathe during yoga practices, and with getting a scene in a novel to convey action, theme, characterization, and atmosphere in a balanced and interesting way during a writing session. Neither reduces me to a watery mess, though.

It was just as well that my cello teacher royally mangled up his schedule and I ended up not having a lesson last Thursday. I hate to think what I would have put him through if we'd gone through with it as planned.

However, cello practice is a part of my evening routine. Not doing it was starting to feel weird. So I sat down with it again tonight. Half-heartedly, I admit. The cats were nearby for support, as they generally are. I apologized to Damiel and Cassiel for how bad this was going to sound, and just tried a scale. Timid and wobbly-sounding, but what can you expect after four days of nothing? I did it a few more times just to get my fingers comfortable again, and while anything near good intonation still eludes me, I at least didn't want to smash the thing against the wall.

I couldn't quite face my assigned pieces at first, so I went back to trusty Schroeder. As in, page 2, bowing on open strings. Gotta start somewhere. I went through several more Schroeder exercises, swallowed a big glug of tea, and opened Dotzauer. My slurs are improving a drop at a time, as is position change from first into half and back again. Even first into second and back is a hair more accurate. I'll take what I can get.

It wasn't great. It sounded horrible as usual, but for whatever reason, I can bear horrible today when I really couldn't last Wednesday. That may be because the Inner Critic seems to have gone on walkabout temporarily.