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FROM THE SOUND OF GREG’S muffled voice on the other side of his office door, Katrina guessed whoever called wasn’t very happy. Greg was using his placating tone, the one he’d perfected whenever he was apologizing to someone at the church for failing to shovel the walkway or making excuses for his wife who’d allegedly left a light on in the church basement.
Any thoughts she’d held about making tonight sweet and romantic were lost. Oh, well. Something had happened in her today, a spark or awakening that she couldn’t explain. When she’d gotten home from her voice lessons, she’d jumped straight into cooking dinner, but now that she had a little extra time, she wanted to play her violin. Alone this time. See if somehow Miles’ magic that had unlocked her diaphragm, giving her the confidence to sing like she never imagined she could, had also freed her from whatever mental or creative block was keeping her from making music with Dmitry like she used to.
She wasn’t even sure which she was more excited for, practicing her new vocal runs or pulling out her violin. She scribbled a quick note for her husband and headed over to the church, clutching her case against her chest as if it were a baby she was trying to protect from the cold.
Snow fell lightly around her. Once Greg got off the phone with whoever he was apologizing to, he’d be out here salting and shoveling so it’d be ready for church tomorrow. The whole night stretched out before her. A night with just her, Dmitry, and if she felt like it, her voice.
All evening, thoughts of her lesson with Miles snaked through her mind. Sometimes subtle, like in the first bars of Peer Gynt tiptoeing In the Hall of the Mountain King, sometimes racing like in the piece’s climax. The amazing part was realizing that her potential, the sound she’d made as it rang through the music room, had been with her throughout her entire life. All her mom’s berating about her voice had been a lie. All Katrina needed was a guide to help her access the gift she had been given.
Miles hadn’t handed her a magic potion that transformed her little mousy voice into an instrument of power and ringing clarity. All he’d done was lead her to the part of her spirit where she could tap into that ability herself.
Now the biggest question remaining was whether or not she could replicate that performance when she was by herself.
She let herself into the church, careful to shut and lock the door behind her.
There was a piano up on the stage in the sanctuary, but she wasn’t ready for that yet. She needed a more enclosed space. To recreate the way she’d sung earlier today, she needed to feel safe. She needed to feel protected.
There was a small keyboard in the cry room, which was hardly more than a closet attached to the back of the sanctuary for mothers to sit with their fussy babies. It would do for a start, at least until she got her voice warmed up.
She played a C chord, then hummed the first few runs Miles had taught her. She was afraid that what happened today was a once-in-a-lifetime event or something that could only be recreated when Miles was nearby. But after a few minutes, when she got used to the sound of her own tentative singing, she allowed herself to reach into that breath she’d so recently discovered, that place in her gut where her diaphragm apparently connected to her psyche and propelled out the music of her soul.
It wasn’t quite as ringing as it had been at the school, but that could be explained by the open, gym-like acoustics of Miles’ music room. Even though the sound here wasn’t exactly as clear, she felt the passion just the same. The boldness. She hadn’t realized until now that she’d been living life afraid of her own voice. After hearing what she could do, she didn’t want to cover it up again.
She wasn’t ready to jump in front of the church and sing a solo, but maybe with practice she’d even overcome that fear. It could start small. Singing with the kids during the Christmas pageant. Allowing her voice to carry more than two inches in front of her during Sunday morning worship, even on those days when she wasn’t on stage and had nothing to do with the singing.
It was hard to overestimate what Miles had done for her. Once her husband got off his phone call and finished shoveling, if he wasn’t in a horrid mood already, she wanted to find a way to explain it. Maybe one day she’d feel comfortable singing for him. It was a start, a step toward sharing this new gift she’d discovered with others.
Twenty minutes later, she needed to stop. She hadn’t brought over any water or tea, wasn’t particularly hydrated to start with, and as exciting as it was to have this newfound power within her, the truth was that her voice was still new and inexperienced. She had to take a break.
The cry room was perfect for a timid singer who wanted to feel enclosed, but it was far too small for a violinist, especially one who swayed as much as she did. That wasn’t a problem, though, since she’d been playing her violin on stages and in wide open concert halls for almost her entire life. She walked into the sanctuary, checking twice to make sure she’d turned off the lights in the cry room, and inhaled deeply. She didn’t know what it was about Miles’ method of breathing instruction, but she’d never felt so healthy or strong. She’d recently read a study saying that singing just ten minutes a day could extend your life. She’d attributed that to the healing power of music itself, but maybe it had just as much to do with the breathing as anything else.
Whatever it was, this was a feeling she didn’t want to lose. Like a newlywed couple never going back to just kissing. There was only forward from here. She didn’t want to be silenced again.
She took out her bow first, confident as she rosined him up. This was an upgrade, a bow that was even more expensive than the violin she’d owned before Dmitry. They’d only been together for a little over two years, but he and Dmitry acted like soulmates separated for half a lifetime and only now finding each other again.
And now Dmitry was under her chin. He’d stayed relatively in tune since his trip to the school this afternoon. Just a few minor adjustments on the higher strings. And then she was ready to play.
If she’d been nervous about resuming her relationship with her violin after such a long hiatus, she’d been worrying over nothing. Like a couple pulled away from each other for a few short, painful months and then tossed back into their bed of passion and intimacy, she was one with her instrument. He wasn’t even an extension of her. He was her. Slow, rusty fingers, cramped wrists, awkward bowings — there had been nothing to worry about at all. Why had she neglected him for so long? Why had she ignored the one friend who could truly understand her sorrows and turn each tear into music, a prayer without words that expressed the hidden depths of her soul?
She’d been afraid of so many things. Of playing her violin again after losing her child. Of flashbacks of the trip to the emergency room. Scared even of her grief.
She was tired of being afraid. She was tired of being a little church mouse who squeaked in terror at every sound. Why should she be so fearful? Sure, she was young, but she was an adult. An accomplished musician who knew more about city life and sophistication than just about anyone else in Orchard Grove.
There was no reason to be afraid.
Even her music reflected this new confidence. New boldness. Katrina’s playing had always been lyrical, both mournful and beautiful. Soul-aching, one of the Solo and Ensemble judges had told her back in high school. A few other violinists in her district had achieved more technical skill, but none of them could make their instruments sing like Katrina could. None of them could reach out and connect with their audience in a way that was so open and raw. Another judge called her music haunting.
But now, the lyrical, drawn-out beauty of her instrument was replaced with something new. Boldness and confidence. Fast, almost flirtatious. Her fingers sprinted up and down the board like her voice had so recently run through her practice riffs. Katrina had always preferred playing in the lower registers, where she could make Dmitry sing mournfully. When she had to play up high, she did so almost apologetically.
Squeaking, like she once had with her voice.
No more. Whatever had been unlocked in her singing today had transferred to her violin. She wasn’t just playing Dmitry after taking a few months off and picking up right where she had left off. She was a new musician.
No, that wasn’t the right way to put it. She could still do the lyrical and haunting tones, but there was another layer — another whole world — that opened up to her now. She’d always hated Mozart, thought his violin parts were ridiculously pompous and bombastic, but now as she played through the opening of his third violin concerto, she realized how strong she felt.
This is what it meant to play without any fear or any inhibitions at all. If only my friends at the symphony could hear me now. Katrina was deaf to the sanctuary acoustics which had so often irked her in the past. She was ignorant of the fact that she was playing so loud anybody walking down the sidewalk could hear her clearly.
There was no more sanctuary. There was no more Orchard Grove.
For the first time since she and Greg packed up his car and moved to this barren town, she wasn’t bound by the traditionalism, the judgmental attitudes or catty gossip. She wasn’t held down by fears or anxieties or worries about what others would think of her.
None of that could hold her down anymore.
Katrina was free.