hort-i-culture

The best thing about music, in my opinion, is where it takes you. Emotionally, and literally.

Something in us wants to be taken by it. 

As a creator of music, you are often let in to miniature universes you would have otherwise had no access to. People invite you. You come, and you share these breif moments of similar experience as you bring into existence, music.

      *

Late summer afternoon in Mallorca, an island just off the coast of Spain. I am a nanny for four year old triplets. A  sticky, exhausting, messy day, but now the family is gathered for almuerzo . Plates and bowls, mostly empty, clutter the huge wooden table, and all adults lay back in their chairs, hands on full stomachs. I tighten my A string as Abuelo motions me closer. I begin. His eyes close. He is taken back to a time before the Spanish civil war. He is in the sun, the dirt. The years melt as he listens, he tells me. Thank you thank you, he tells me.

      *

I am 8. We step off the tube and ride the escalator up to Covent Garden. I stare up at a man with hot pink hair on the step in front of me. I follow my sister through the crowds, searching for the perfect spot, then begin. Songs practiced in my basement thousands of miles away now fill the British air around us. My fingers seem a bit awkward in the chilly air, but we smile at each other with each clink of a coin tossed into our small cases, I look at the faces of the people now stopped, watching, and I feel warm.

      *

"Here it is!" 陳姐妹 points down the road towards a tiny violin shop and we pedal on through hot air. Inside, a small Taiwanese man appears amid hundreds of violins hung closely on every wall. I smell varnish and stacks of books. "Thank you so much for letting us borrow this." I say.  He smiles, handing me the case like he's handing me his newborn grandchild.  " It is my honor. Music is meant to be shared." And we are off. No straps on the case, I place it in my front basket, holding on with one hand, and we make our way downtown to the radio station. The headphones slip off one of my ears as the D.J. announces with a smile "And now, a special treat all the way from America..." 

       *

Last night we were privileged to play at the Horticulture Banquet, an evening event part of a series of workshops and lectures. We took our seats at a round table next to Mr. Alan Riley and among generations of fruit farmers. One valley over and what a different existance. 

First, there were awards for contributions to the field. One for a paper written about alternative methods of cherry growing, one to honor the life of an outstanding farmer and man. Here was a man who had spent his days with the earth. He was remembered for his integrity, resourcefulness, and hard work. 

Many long winded and incredibly funny jokes alongside updates on various families and farmers in the community. I felt a total outsider, and, I was. Then it was time for our Chinese American Folk fusion band. None of us were quite sure how such a crowd would feel about people spending so much time plucking strings and singing songs instead of working hard to grow something. But we began to play. And we were suddenly the same. Tapping toes, holding hands, nodding heads. 

Last, the Raffle. Way too many hats. We won a three-foot-tall stuffed animal dog. With a heart on it's foot.

As we climbed back in the car to head home, Dorius smiled. "Something about those Rileys. It just feels good to be around em." Honest, entirely present. You feel like they get something about the universe, about living, that you don't yet.

We were thirsty. So we pulled into a gas station, deliberating a good 5 minutes on who should go in, who should stay with sleeping baby and the instruments, and what beverages should be purchased (carbonation makes you thirstier, juices are too sweet, diet drinks are gross) . Then there we sat, chocolate dunford donuts and power aid at a Conoco station in Springville Utah, singing along to "don't speak" by No Doubt on the radio.