Week 15: My Violin Teacher

A few years ago, I started taking violin lessons. The violin belonged to my grandfather, who died years before I was born. Somehow, playing the instrument gave me a connection to this wonderful man whom I never met.

Once a year, my teacher hosts a recital in her home. It's all kids...and me. Some of the older kids are fantastic, and the younger ones are pretty good too...and then there's me...the worst one every year.

This is not me being modest. I'm a beginning student and I have been getting better, but when I stand up in front of all the families on recital day my arm starts to shake. The bow goes skittering across the strings and a horrible sound comes screeching out, like a wailing cat strapped to a jackhammer.

My poor teacher! I think this may be even more embarrassing and awkward for her than it is for me. Yet she patiently plays along on the piano as I struggle and fumble through my piece. Last week, she told me it's time to get ready for the next recital; there's never even a hint of a suggestion that I give up. This woman actually believes in me, and for that I am truly grateful.

Photo by Madelon 🇫🇷 on Unsplash