Three-year-olds sang “up like a rocket, down like rain, round and round like a choo-choo train” to show how well they could hold their bows on their little violins. By staying home with Nick, it was my husband who had the distinct privilege of reveling, firsthand, in these little boys’ first steps. I only got the post-recital smile, the one I always get when I think of the smaller musicians among us, as I listened to the full recap of their afternoon in Westport. We had been through that exercise four times. The “taca-taca-stop-stop” rhythms on the A and E strings; the “Mississippi is a river”; and enough Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to practically send us orbiting around them. I’m the first to admit it: After the fourth child got over the “sparkles”, I honestly thought that if I never heard that song again, it would be fine with me.
But then, when talking about the recital during the first dinner we shared alone for the last three weeks, I couldn’t help but romanticize the whole process. As I reflected on the last thirteen years of violin lessons, I thought of those first recitals, dressing Cristina in hand-ruffled dresses with white stockings and black patent leather shoes, and the first time two of them played the Bach Concerto. . for two violins on stage on a mother’s day. Yesterday, just as my daughter took the stage to perform, the school principal gave a couple of minutes of encouragement for the other parents. For those with babies who barely “glow” they needed to understand that, before long, they, too, would be witnessing the domain up close and personal. If only they could hold it out long enough…
Sticking with anything is hard enough. In this busy world of ours, where emails have replaced handwritten letters; “IM” has replaced paused phone chats; and digital photos sent over the Internet have replaced personal visits – no wonder few of us have the patience to master it. For enduring day to day until the painting is 100% complete. During this time we find ourselves in, business – and life – moves at the speed of thought. And we can’t wait for that thought to end so we can move on to the next. (Have you ever caught yourself finishing someone else’s sentence?)
We are great starters, each one of us. Because starting something only requires us to overcome the law of inertia (and maybe a pinch of temptation too). Lifting our butts off the couch and into the art studio to paint or our legs off the stool and onto the treadmill requires overcoming inertia and the temptation to relax with too much TV. Finishing the afternoon cupcake to get the violin out of the case doesn’t just require overcoming inertia; it also requires serious discipline. But each act is much easier than incorporating it into your daily reality. In fact, going from the first piece of a music book to a full concert is something else entirely. (Like going from a beginning painter to a gallery exhibitor or a bland, overweight sofa couch to a hard-bodied athlete who enjoys both physical strength and aerobic endurance.)
When I revealed it today by listening to my daughter perform a wonderful movement from a Handel concerto (in a private post-recital concert just for me), I was taken aback by its parallel to the roughly three-year battle of endurance. that our son is now dealing with leukemia. As my daughter navigates her way to mastery, I couldn’t help but think of all the violin battles we’ve had over the years when she was just taking her first steps toward musicianship. From hating practicing, from hating playing scales, from hating those nasty studies. The blank eyes, the slamming of doors and the stamping of feet on each step of the wooden staircase. And yet here we were, enjoying the fruits of all those days of practice. It was a goosebump moment that could not be denied. It was proof positive that mastery comes in inches and not miles. And it was a lesson for me that health battles, catastrophes or financial difficulties are not fought three years later. They fight inch by inch.
It was my girlfriend, Lisa, who sent me the phrase “inch by inch is a piece of cake.” She puts me up with her when I most needed to hear her. She met me when I was trying to cram three years of chemotherapy treatments into one day. When I was trying to calculate the math of a three-year chemotherapy roadmap with high school graduation and the first two years of college away from home. Three years of immune suppression with three other children and a husband who flies during flu season. And six months of long trips to the clinic outside the city in snowstorms in New England.
However, I must claim “inch for inch” these days. I call it when Nick’s hematologist lays out the plan for the day. I claimed it on Friday when we were sent back to the hospital for the day and another overnight stay. And I even got Dr. Joe to claim it with me. Together, we agree not to worry about what the next week, or the next year, will bring; it’s just too much to think about. We agreed to approach the battle inch by inch.
Whatever your personal struggle or current concern: adopt an “inch by inch is a piece of cake” positive action plan. As I’ve often said: Just ask yourself at the end of each day, “Did I move on?” And if you did, even by an inch, you can sleep soundly knowing that you will succeed in this journey of life. One day not too far from now, inch by inch, you will celebrate dominance. You will celebrate wholeness. You will celebrate complete healing.
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