I go to it like a lover, never knowing whether it will spurn me or sing for me. Though its shape is unmistakably feminine, I think of my instrument as masculine. Its voice in the lower register is as satisfying as hearty winter soup. Bass and baritone, beef and barley. I wish to race my fingers lightly up and down its sleek neck.
Music is water, essential and basic.
The bow must break the string's tension like a water strider insect breaks the surface of a calm summer lake, my teacher explains. But there are maddening days when the fingers are leaden and slow, the bow hand too fast. No one would ever describe me as Zen-like, but I resolve to try. I am the Dalai Lama. We are at roughly the same place in the program.