In yesterday morning's letter I didn't mention how I was planning to spend the afternoon. Maybe I thought I would jinx myself, and certainly I was nervous about how it would go. What I did was drive a half hour north to Gray and meet up with some of my old central Maine band mates and music friends, and we spent all afternoon working out arrangements for some songs. The reason I didn't mention this is because I am so rusty: for five years I've barely taken the violin out of its case, after spending the previous five years fully engaged as a working band member. I felt embarrassed and kind of gloomy. But what happened was entirely uplifting: everyone was so happy to be playing together, the awkwardness melted away, I felt engaged and concentrated . . . listening hard, rediscovering my hands. It turned out to be a wonderful reunion.

The reason we got together is because Brian (guitar, bass, vocals) is organizing a big show in Dover-Foxcroft to honor Sid Stutzman, the founder of the band Doughty Hill, which has had many iterations over the course of 30 or 40 years. Sid's a songwriter, and the show will feature his originals, performed by many of the people he's taught, supported, and played with over the years. As my son says, it's kind of a lifetime achievement award for him. So we spent a few hours--Sid's son Sunny (bass, guitar, sax, harmonica, vocals), Brian's daughter Morgan (vocals, mandolin) and son-in-law Cliff (piano, arrangement mastermind), and me (fiddle, vocals)--working our way into new keys and harmonies, everyone so cheerful and glad to be at it together. The day was really a joy.

So this morning I woke up with sore fingertips (I need to get my string callouses back) but bubbling over with accomplishment. Not playing is always a cloud over my head, a shame. It feels right to be back at it again.

* * *

Today, however, will be a kitchen day. My mother-in-law has assigned me bread for the holiday meals, so I'll start off with a big stollen-making fest and then move on to whole-grain seedy sandwich loaves. In between I'll wrap the last gifts, work on revisions, do my exercises, pick up a library book, etc., etc. I'm looking forward to the stollen: I haven't made it for years, as Emily's black cake is usually all that's necessary in the fruitcake line. But this will be a nice substitute, and I'll be using dried cherries and apricots instead of the glace fruit, which should look just as pretty and taste better.

Such a busy so-called "week off from work," but in a good way: buzzing around among musicians, poems, and baking pans. Tonight T and I are going to go into town for a meal and a stroll under the lights. Tomorrow night, I'll see my poets for dinner and writing. 

Two hundred miles north I'd let the dog

run among birches and the black shade of pines.

I miss the hills, the woods and stony

streams, where the swish of jacket sleeves

against my sides seems loud, and a crow

caws sleepily at dawn.

--from Jane Kenyon, "Christmas Away from Home"