Over a long past Christmas as our family gathered at meals, it was discovered that we all love bluegrass and that between us, there were enough musicians to start a band, which included: two guitars, bass, banjo, fiddle, and last and apparently least, me on mandolin. There was a great deal of merriment at my expense for of the group I had not been playing nearly as much as I should. (well...there was that whole shop, clean, cook meals, do laundry, listen to outpourings of "my life," and write novels which did occupy a lot of my time.) I had to endure (with good humor) tongue and cheek comments about being potentially tossed from the band for my lack of initiative.
For reasons I don't understand, my twelve years in Arizona really was a long dry haul across the desert. I simply stopped doing the things I loved most. Since moving to Boulder CO, nestled up high in the mountains, I have returned to so many activities that I put aside. Perhaps I needed seasons to push me along, perhaps the cool mountain air and the change of light was enough to rekindle so many past pleasures. Now, I write more, I sing more, I hike more, my loom always has a warp, and my knitting needles a work in progress. And I have retrieved my mandolin from its case and begun toughening my fingers. So many tunes are returning and what a joy it is. The mandolin like me, suffered a bit from the arid life in Tucson -- a crack has appeared on its face and I go now to a local luthier to see what can be done to repair it.