Some of you know that I volunteer as a Big Sister. That means that I spend nearly every weekend with my over-the-top, funny, creative, compassionate Little Sister. Almost nine years ago, a social worker at Big Sister thought that we would be a good match, and she was right. 

This past weekend, Big Sister sponsored a a trip to Tanglewood, which is the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Coincidentally, we shared the bus with a group of teenagers who work for an organization called Teen Empowerment, and who happen to be friends of my Little Sister's from school. 

If you've never been to Tanglewood before, you should go. There is something magical about listening to live music outside, surrounded by people of all ages and backgrounds, as the sound of the cellos soars over the crowd. Sunday's concert featured Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto Number 2, and various selections by Verdi. 

As wonderful as the concert was, and as much as I enjoyed being back in Western Massachusetts, the highlight of the day for me didn't occur until we got on the bus to head home. As soon as we were seated,  the group from Teen Empowerment started singing a spontaneous rendition of Dona Nobis Pacem. 

Dona Nobis Pacem means Grant us Peace in Latin. Our world is a crazy, scary, dangerous place. But when those teenagers sang that song, which has been performed and sung all over the world for hundreds of years, but never quite so beautifully as on that bus this past Sunday, it gave me hope that things will get better, especially if those particular young adults have any say in the matter. 

I didn't record the teens as they sang, but I wish that I could have. Instead, I will leave you with the National Cello Institute's rendition of Dona Nobis Pacem. I wish that the whole world could hear it. 

When I was in second grade, my teacher gave me the following writing prompt: If you could be any person in the world, who would you be? My response was: I would be myself. I would be the same as I am now. But I would get my work done faster. More than thirty years have passed since I wrote that, and I'm not nearly as content with myself, or my life, as I was then. 

I am old enough to know that I might never be anyone's mother, and that I might spend the rest of my life alone. I am old enough to know that it's not realistic to quit my job and write a novel instead. I am old enough to know that dreams don't always come true, no matter how much I would like them to. 

But that doesn't mean I give up on them.  I know more about pregnancy and birth than most people do. I research foster parenting and adoption. I have various novel drafts on my computer. I tell myself that I'd rather be alone than with the wrong person. 

And, on most days, that's true. But on other days, I am overwhelmed with the desire to trade places with someone else. Someone in a happy marriage, someone with a baby, someone who loves her job, or better yet, a happily married novelist with a baby. 

 On those days, my cello saves me. There are so many components to learning how to play the cello, that when I sit down to practice, I can't think about my life. I can't think about anything except the cello, the angle of my arms, legs, and hands, the placement of my fingers, and the pressure on my bow. In that moment, the only thing that matters is figuring out how to make that massive chunk of wood sing like I know it can, even if its song eludes me most of the time. 

When I was younger, I thought that it was important to get my work done faster. And sometimes it is, but other work, the most important work, takes months or years. Even when I have a rough practice day, like today, when almost every note sounds like death, and it would be easier to put the cello in a large box and ship it somewhere far away, each day I practice is one step closer to the dream I have for myself and my cello. That dream is to play Saint-Saen's The Swan. I don't know whether I'll ever play it, but I do know that like all of my other dreams, I'm not ready to give up on it yet. 

Many people are spending their free time this summer at the beach. I am spending my free time memorizing songs on my cello. As I mentioned in last week's post, I have a new teacher now. I chose her originally because she's an accomplished cellist, because she's been teaching for a long time, and because she is available for weekly lessons. She also uses the Suzuki method, but up until two weeks ago, I didn't really know what that meant, and I didn't care. I just needed a new teacher. 

Now I know what the Suzuki method is, and I am a firm believer. For me, Suzuki's emphasis on memorization through listening and repetition really works. Ever since I started playing the cello a year ago, I've surrounded myself with cello music, but I'd never made myself memorize any songs. Now I'm memorizing at least one song a week, and usually two. The emphasis on memorization motivates me to practice every day, and the more I practice, the more confident I am, and the more I love the cello. 

I also appreciate Suzuki's gradual introduction of new skills. This week, I am learning a song called Lightly Row. Lightly Row features tunneling, which means keeping my fingers on one string while playing a note on another string with the bow. It's not easy. Ideally, by Wednesday, I should sound like this, minus the vibrato. Vibrato is that wiggly thing he's doing with his fingers. I haven't learned how to do that yet, but I will soon enough, especially if I keep practicing every day. 

I'll have to wait a little while though, because it's only 8:00 in the morning, and as much as I've grown to appreciate the Suzuki method over the past few weeks, I'm sure that my landlord, who lives upstairs, is probably hearing French Folk Song and Lightly Row in his nightmares. 

I've been playing the cello for one year and eleven days. Last year, when I first signed the rental agreement and took on the daunting task of learning the cello as an adult, I told myself that even if I got frustrated and wanted to trade her in for a triangle, I had to stick with it until at least June 25th, 2014. Well, June 25th came and went, and I just renewed the rental agreement. 

This past year, I had a wonderful teacher who shared her love of the cello with me, and patiently stood by as I made exceedingly slow progress. I met her at a local adult ed beginning cellists' class, and later took several private lessons with her. Due to scheduling conflicts though, I had to find a new teacher. 

Last week, I had my first lesson with my new teacher, and so far, we are off to a good start. I've been practicing every day, and I now have stickers on my cello to help with finger placement. I look forward to the day when I can remove them, but for now, the visual and tactile feedback from the stickers is helping to boost my confidence and my cello's sound. Already, my coordination in my left hand is improving and I can transition between notes much more smoothly. 

The cello is a finicky, visually beautiful creature. If played correctly, its sound sends chills down your spine and can make you weep with the beauty of it. But getting a cello to reveal its true voice takes a lot of hard work and patience. Most of the time, my cello still sounds like an ailing cow, but once in a while, she sings, and the sound and feeling of those elusive perfect notes is enough to make me keep working at it, at least for one more year. 

I have lived in the Boston area for almost 20 years. In my experience, the general rule here is: Don't talk to strangers, ever. If you do attempt to greet people on the street, they will A) Ignore you B) Look at you as if you are crazy, or C) Immediately cross the street to get away from you. 

But rules are made to be broken. And people in the Greater Boston area will talk to you if and only if the following are true: 

1. You are holding a newborn. 
2. You have a puppy, or, even better, you are a puppy. 
3. You are one of those mimes dressed as a frozen Statue of Liberty in Harvard Square, and they are trying to get you to talk. 
4. You are attending a Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins, or Celtics game and/or you, like they, are slightly inebriated. 
5. We have just had a snowstorm. 
6. We have just experienced a tragedy like September 11th or the Boston Marathon bombings.
7. You are carrying or playing a guitar or a cello. 

I do not have a newborn. I do not have a puppy. I am not a puppy or a mime. I rarely attend professional sporting events, I don't drink, and it is August, so there is no snow on the ground. Until a few months ago, people around here rarely spoke to me.  But the first time I walked out of my house with a cello, my neighbor, whom I'd never spoken to before, said "Hello" as he walked by. I almost dropped my cello.  Later, as I headed to cello class, other strangers smiled at me. 

Recently, when leaving cello class very late at night, someone came up behind me and said, "What you got there?" I instantly thought the worst, and prepared to scream and/or run. Then I remembered that I was carrying a cello on my back, and I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I told him that it was a cello, and he and I and his group of friends stood around in the dark and talked about how they play the cello too, and how much they love it. This happens everywhere I go now. 

So, if you are feeling lonely and you are not a puppy, or you don't have a puppy or a newborn to accompany you around town, and you have no interest in sports, internet dating or creepy Statue of Liberty mimes, rent a cello.* I guarantee that if you put it on your back and walk around with it for a few minutes, you will start meeting new people. You don't even have to learn to play it, but if you do, your social circle will increase exponentially, every other aspect of your life will improve, and you will never be bored or lonely again. 


*Johnson Strings