Bach Shock

Sitting here writing, the wood stove beside me silent, resting after a long winter's work. Outside I'm watching the new, tender, green leaves tremble under a steady spring rain. I've just come back from an aborted run with two out of my three dogs. Bronte lies curled on the stone floor next to the bathtub: apparently wedged between porcelain fixtures is close enough to a den for her so as to avoid having to deal with the first thunder of the season.

I've been working with a lot of students on Bach recently. It has made me think about the Suites and the fact that, if asked, I would say that the music “most likely to want to play” would have to be The Bach Suites. In part this is because you see the music and hear it so much. It has, unfortunately, much like Ravel's Bolero, or Saint Saen's Swan, become theme for car and credit card advertisements.

Certain Etudes seem to be written clearly in preparation for the Suites, in particular for the Prelude to the First Suite. There are variations of the Suites written so that even the earliest beginner can Bariolage in slow motion.

I usually give a copy of The Suites as a holiday gift. It is standard repertoire for progressing students: something all cellists must tackle and then tackle again. People hold the music against their chest and sigh. It is held out as a gift, in many ways, to the player when the time is right.

There is always a moment when someone asks to begin the Bach Suites. It is done in a lilting voice and a rather flirtatious, hopeful glance. They also always, always want to begin with the Prelude to the First Suite. Somewhere in the air I am sure I'm hearing Bach's laughter.

There are many techniques that need to be in place before I feel someone is ready to begin the Suites. Beyond that skill-set is confidence born from enough time on the cello. Without that, discouragement is seeded.

When the time is right, the moon is full, and someone is wearing a green shirt on a Tuesday...we begin. If I am feeling kindly, we begin at the beginning. I talk about the beauty of being unaccompanied being that the entire harmonic structure is formed by a single cello line. Another beauty is that many tempo interpretations can be allowed. The hint in my voice: unmistakably largo.

Any good adventure begins with preparation; off slur, drone and metronome in hand and a snack...always a snack. It is always a good idea to take bite size pieces of a large task. Making something difficult manageable. I find that most people take a look at the notes and the rhythm and shrug a little, as if to say “what is the big deal?” and somewhere in the air I am sure I'm again hearing Bach's laughter...and not for the last time. They have heard the piece, they have watched countless YouTube performances of it being played at warp speed, so page one doesn't seem too daunting. We stay off slur to round into page two. When assigning the second page I try to keep other assignments to a minimum because I know where we are going.

David comes up on Skype, head in hands and tells me that he has been wrestling with the last half of the second page all week. He shows me the notes full of swearing both about the piece and at me. I accept it graciously. Worse has been said. “Man,” he grumbles, “I had no idea.”

My point exactly.

A teacher once told me, “It isn't what you play- it is how you play it.” I use this phrase repeatedly with my students, especially when working with Bach. Those notes that look so innocuous on the page are so difficult to turn into the beautiful, moving lines that we want to roll off our bow. Challenging positions manifested by difficult fingerings, bowings that connect a phrase into just the first eighth note of the beginning of the next phrase, call and response dynamics when all that seems possible is to get the damn notes on the page. These challanges are all hiding in our plain sight.

There has been question that the Suites were originally written as etudes and Casals used that idea. In fact, when asked why he continued, at the age of 93, to work on the Suites daily, he responded, “because I think I am getting better.”

Perhaps that is the attitude we should take when beginning to study the Bach Suites; that they are an extension of the etudenal work we do each day. We understand that playing scales repeatedly has benefit - we don't expect to play a four octave A major scale once and say that we have played it, mastered it and, should be done with it. We inherently know that there is value in the repetition and, because of this, like Casals, we keep getting better.

Patience, Perseverance and staying on the path.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: Naked & Afraid

Tuesday morning, late April, we wake up early: I should say earlier because we are already waking up early to the melodic cries of Muir each morning. We have a laundry list of chores to complete before Mary, our shearer, arrives at 8:00. I carry out a bag of blueberry muffins that I've made the night before as both bribe and thanks to the volunteers who begin to arrive with early morning half smiles. Sheep aren't supposed to eat on the morning of shearing but it seems I haven’t quite been able to cross that species language barrier and tell them that. So they begin to bellow the minute I come into sight. We have had to shut the gate between chicken coop and sheep paddock so now the chickens are angry and pacing the fence line like prison inmates out for morning exercise. My popularity is going nowhere but down.

We need to empty the barn so that it can act as headquarters central for Mary. We put a hook in the ceiling so that she can move freely while shearing. This year we switched things up and have sheep to begin. Then we set up fencing off the front of the barn so that they would be brought in from the back, shorn in the barn, then hustled out the front. I plant Sam outside of the fencing for good measure. At one point Paul mistakenly leaves part of the fencing open and one of the ewes turns left rather than right and pops right out of the enclosure. In reality, ewes are flock animals and, more importantly, prey animals. They want to stick together: she had no interest in wandering around without her friends. However, once she is out, Sam goes to work to be sure she knows she’s in his territory now and will be moving right along the way we planned, thank you very much.

Mary arrives, tanks up on a few muffins and we begin. As this is our third time shearing [now] with pretty much the same team: we have this. Josh (aka the tree) helps encourage sheep into the barn. I’m Mary's right hand- or left, depending. Paul opens the front door as the sheep exit and basically gets out of the way. Then he and Morgan, our young neighbor, gather the wool into bags. I grab the broom and am on clean up. Smooth.

Shearing is a beautiful thing to watch. By April the sheep are in full coats, and panting when the sun appears, essentially ready to be shorn. However, they are simultaneously not ready for this and so not really ready to come willingly. Josh helps Mary “coax” the sheep into the barn: there is a lot of backing up during this procedure. Finally Mary has them plopped on their butts and gets to work. It seems that the most docile of the ladies does the most bicycling with her legs. Mary is an expert in the art of sheep Akido and sidesteps many a close call of hoof to face. In less than five minutes they have been taken out of their wool sleeping bags and stand up, essentially naked. Months of wool, fringed with manure lies in a pile at their feet. Naked or not, they know the way out. Once out of the barn they stand for a moment and begin to bellow indignantly for their friends. As they rush around the corner to reach the holding pen it seems that they are bending over slightly, in a vain attempt to cover themselves.

In the middle of shearing Mary notices the radiant heat lamp that I have attached to the ceiling of the barn. I explain that I bought it so that if the temps dropped really low in the winter months there would be some warmth in the barn proper. Over the buzz of the shears I could hear the howl of her laughter.

We work together to vaccinate everyone and clean and clip hooves. The sheep equivalent of a shave and a haircut I guess. Finally the last ewe has been shorn and they all stand in the paddock somewhat self consciously. At this point they have lost about seven pounds of wool each: I don't recognize them and they don't recognize each other. They begin the arduous process of head butting to reestablish their pecking order. I make note that the hens line the fence watching this. Cackling.

We spend the next hour bagging wool, taking down fencing and putting straw bedding back onto the barn floor. Morgan grabs another muffin for fortification.

I feel relieved to have this rite of spring over. (Next step: pasture!) We hit the hay early that night and wake up in the morning to...snow. Three inches with more coming . The wind is howling from the north and I have a barn full of sheep who are naked. And afraid.

I push feet into muck boots, grab a barn coat from the hook and quickly head out. I open the guillotine door for the hens who peek their heads out, think better of it and stay put in the coop. I quietly open the barn door to find all the sheep nestled deep in fresh straw. They look up and continue to chew quietly and contentedly because they are all tucked under the radiant heat lamp that I had turned on before I went to bed!!

And. over the roar of the wind I can distinctly hear the howl of my own laughter.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: Muir

If you use working dogs on your farm you have to realize that, at some point, the dog(s) that are working will, like all of us, slow down, break down and wear out. A lot of working-dog owners will begin looking for their next herder when the older dog is about three.

Our border collie, Sam, is now twelve and Bronte six. We are a bit behind. For several months we have been thinking about bringing a new pup onto the farm to help with our growing flock of sheep. The reason that we haven't done it yet is because both dogs, Sam especially, are so good at their job. Our dogs live to work. They have both done well in sheep dog trialing also but they love the challenges of farm work best of all. Each morning we gather the sheep in their upper paddock and take them down into the pasture for the day. Bronte is almost all black and has prick ears making her resemble a wolf. When she zips around the sheep to flank them toward the gate, they pay attention. Physically, Sam is the Border Collie on the dog food bags. He has the perfect black and white markings and his ears tip slightly which makes him appear friendly and gentle...which he is. To a point. When a ewe decides she would rather go left than right, Sam slows drops into a low crouch and simply looks at her: asking, in his Sam way, to continue after the shepherdess down the hill. If the ewe still resists, he asks bit more forcefully, adding just enough pressure to change her mind. Most of this is done simply with his eye.

They are invaluable to what we do. They take only a few minutes minutes to do an hour job. Based on this, and the fact that training a border collie to herd takes a good couple of years, we began looking around. We spoke with several people about their litters but, nothing felt quite right. So we did what we often do. We procrastinated.

About four months ago a friend told me about some people at a nearby farm who were expecting a litter of Border Collies. Both parents were on sight which was very appealing. I tentatively made another call. Gwyneth and I had several long conversations about what we were looking for, and how they were proceeding with this, their first litter. We began to get a little excited.

Come early February, as the snow blew drifts across the roads and icicles decorated our roof line, we got word that seven pups had been born. In the following weeks we made two trips to their farm. The first time the pups were crawling, army-style around the pen, eyes barely opened and squeaking more like Guinea Pigs than puppies. The second time, full on running in that pot-bellied drunken wobble of a new canine. I had first pick of the litter and now was the time. I steeled myself against all adorableness and kept my mind clear about what I was looking for. I wanted the pup to be curious, forward, bright and attentive to his siblings but to have some independence as well. I also wanted a female who had a rough coat.

Then my father’s health began to fail . He was hospitalized for three weeks during which, due to Covid restrictions, we could not visit him and I began to question the timing of our decision. Having a new puppy had seemed wonderful and exciting, but now it seemed crazy and overwhelming in the face of everything going on. Paul reminded me of the motto by which we try to live our lives, “As hard as you can, for as long as you can.” And so, even in the face of my father dying, I took that step forward into the unknown: the start of any real adventure.

I walked over to the pen in the barn: one of the pups looked right at me, trotted over to the fence, promptly sat down and wagged its tail. Very bright, clearly curious and obviously independent. Something in my stomach flipped. However, I stayed steady, chose the top three that interested me and brought them outside. Two spent much of their time using their new growling technique and wrestling with each other but the one who had come over to me at the fence looked around and promptly wandered off in search of some other happiness. Suddenly one of the chickens scooted past and everything stopped. First “my” dog began to walk slowly and deliberately toward the chicken, a bit of a crouch and clear purpose in his step: more telling was that as the chicken made note of him and began to move, he dropped to the ground and stayed perfectly still. The papers were signed.

I was going to be the new guardian of a curious, bright, independent puppy who was a male and the only smooth coat in the bunch. Go figure.

Last weekend we gathered up our Muir. All of the traits that I saw in him have remained true and obvious. Just as my older kids were when I brought home a sweet new baby that stole all the attention, Sam and Bronte are a bit rumpled by the addition. I tried having a sit-down with them, reminding them of their indelible positions on our team (Sam being flock manager). He patiently stood and let me talk with him but I was only getting one eye, and that one was full of disdain.

So here we are. Lying in bed, listening to our newly crated pup swear at us, getting up before the sun (like farmers!!) and disengaging needle-like teeth from our clothes and hair.

Spring is the time of new life on the farm. Sam remains top dog and it is time for him, and for us, to impart some of our hard-earned wisdom on a youngster.

And so it goes.

Melissa Perley

Only One Way To Speak

My father died Saturday.

I find myself beginning to write, “passed on” and then stopping. At first I think it is because it is easier for me to hear, rather than the word “died,” but in thinking about it more, I believe people use that phrase because it is easier for others to hear. One of my observations as I travel through this experience is that our culture, on the whole, is uncomfortable with death as a part of our lives. Industrialized medicine takes a patient from their primary care physician (previously known as your doctor) and quickly absorbs them into the medicinal gears of faceless specialists. This, along with Covid restrictions, caused my father rather disappear from us for three full weeks prior to his death. His weakening telephone voice and wandering mind were our only bread crumbs to him.

Things started like a spring thunderstorm; the sun shines and you see darkening clouds and hear the rumble of thunder from the distance. However it feels far away and you are enjoying the day too much to stop, or even pause. Before you know it you are running full speed to get out of the storm. And you can't.

Even with an understanding of the religious and philosophical, saying that my father “passed” feels like it assumes that he may pass by again at some point. As much as I would love waving to him in passing traffic, I know he is not coming back. Not by here anyway. You’d think I wouldn’t want it, but I seem to need the stark reality of saying that he died.

Our early, lucid conversations included references to things we would do together in the upcoming summer months. He wanted to return home. And to visit a favorite general store, have a slice of pizza and a beer with my mom on the picnic tables out back near the river. The requests seemed so simple and so basic that they never failed to illicit a sting at the back of my throat when I replied. I played the game, because I just couldn’t not. But in the cover of the dark under the blankets, I whispered to Paul that I knew he was not going to leave that hospital.

Some words, phrases are difficult, if not impossible, to speak when we are angry, joyful, or grieving. This is where my friend takes over. I find myself sitting quietly with my cello in hand. Spending a few moments studying the beauty of the grains in the wood before beginning to play something. Anything. In the third movement of the Rachmaninov Sonata I find the complexity of emotions I am looking for. There is tenderness, angst, and beautiful, soaring joy. It feels wonderful to stop thinking about what I am feeling and simply feel, and let the cello take over. Adding nuance to the bow to create some depth in a particularly poignant note or end of phrase and finally letting the sound trail off into somewhere else.

This is where my father is for me. He is at the end of every phrase, where the note drifts into the air. And I use my hand to have that space continue to vibrate.

At some point, I cannot hear the sound anymore, but I know that it is there. Always surrounding me.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: March-ing

I'm driving past the pond on my way home and watching the icy wind lift swirls of snow into the air. They skitter across the frozen surface of the water, lift and dance like mini-tornados. creating white-outs as they blow across the road in front of my car. To me, they are the embodiment of pure winter.

In like a lion comes the month of March. We accept cold in February as part of our winter package: The grocery stores don't even think about having colored pots of daffodils lining the plant display aisle. But, once the calendar page turns to March so too our thoughts turn to spring and I don't leave the grocery store without a purple narcissus or a paper coned package of white tulips tucked in among my food to help me weather the war between winter and spring.

On a farm, spring reveals itself without much melting. There can be five foot snowbank remnants from February but the sun remembers that it is now March. Even on the coldest days you can feel the new warmth in the sunshine beginning to melt the icy ground of animal paddocks. This winter we were resolute about daily scraping and manure shoveling. We were determined to avoid the seven hour day we put in last year, with a tractor, to get back to ground zero. However, even as we stand leaning on our shovels, breathing heavy, the ground grows soggy with melting sheep poop.

March is the month in which we need to begin thinking about new life on the farm. We decide that we would like to have more hens for laying and spend hours talking about various brooding box designs. Baby chicks become hens in a matter of weeks so we also talk about adding on to our chicken coop. One condo for the first flight of ladies and a second for the youngsters, seems like the perfect human ski trip accommodations. We mull over the breed of chicks to order. Our first year we had helpful suggestions from a friend, but this year we are flying solo. Turns out the color of tail feathers is not as important to us as some assurance that they are low-maintenance birds who lean away from the tendency to kill their friends. We decide to order ten Buff Orpingtons - the golden retriever of chickens. We don't really need ten more but unfortunately we understand attrition much better this year than we did last.

Each evening we drag our metal ladder across the barn and climb up into the hay loft to drop a dinner bale down. I stand and breathe in the green smell of fresh hay and kneel to gather hay bale leftovers to stuff into hen's nests and begin to count. In March we need to begin to figure the number of bales we have left. We have emptied our other hay storage space already so this is the only feed we have left until we turn the sheep out to pasture in May. Prices are close to double if you have to purchase hay in the winter so you want to calculate correctly when you order in late summer.

It is also time to begin calling the shearer. This is a task that needs to begin early because, even as repeat clients, it will take several phone calls to get through and schedule a time. Our sheep are heavy with wool. These coats are wonderful insulation from the north wind, but the spring sunshine now pushes the flock into the barn mid day to escape the heat and take a nap. It is time for a shave and a haircut.

Thursday it was almost sixty degrees at noon. All day I listened to the thunderous rush of snow sliding off the metal roofs and landing on the ground below with a satisfied thud. The icicles that the winter winds had bent toward our front windows until they looked like demonic teeth badly in need of orthodontic work, began to drip steadily. But, as early evening brought darkness, it also brought back the cold. I woke in the night to the roar of the wind coming down the mountain: at its height it sounded almost like a growl in its intensity. Laying in the dark I was both fascinated and frightened. When we went out to feed animals the next morning in the returned cold, there was a tree lying across the paddock. It had blown down from outside the fencing and broken part of one of the gates. The sheep looked at us chewing and unblinking as though having a tree smash into their winter space was an every day occurrence. We finished our daily scrape and dragged out the chainsaw. Paul had difficulty hiding his delight at having to use his beloved Stihl. We have come to understand spring as the time of repairs, and of Paul using his chainsaw.

We are coming into the middle of March this week. Time for corned beef and cabbage. As we head toward April the smell of promise is in the air as more people become vaccinated and Covid restrictions slowly begin to lift. Perhaps this lion will, indeed, go out like a lamb. If so, I'm really hoping that doesn't mean more sheep manure to shovel.

Melissa Perley

Days Like This

Each Saturday we make an effort to get a change in scenery. Because we spend so much time at home, we try to find a different place to be outdoors and hike or snowshoe in the company of our very happy dogs. This past weekend we headed up to the Champlain Valley. The temp was brisk so we were bundled as we started hiking. The dogs raced ahead of us breaking a much appreciated trail. It was just after noon, we had enjoyed a picnic lunch in the car on the trip up - which may not sound like much but during Covid, we’ll take it. As we walked we lifted our faces up to the sun and Paul and I both noticed that suddenly we were feeling a mid-February sun; warmer, more consistent and able to cut through the north wind that was following us. This is how it is in Vermont: beginning in December and continuing into June, there are varying levels of warmth from the changing angles of light, and periodically they strike you. This was one of those days.

With all live performances stopped during Covid, I have been determined to take this time to focus on my own music. Being part of many performing groups, my practice time is mainly spent bringing up pieces that I’m hired to play. I make sure I run some scales and try to work on a piece that is technically challenging but the majority of time is spent otherwise. Covid has allowed me to change that up a bit. I have gone back to a more focused practice that includes double stop scales, etudes and solo performance pieces often accompanied in practice by the Vienna Symphonic piano sounds.

Not long ago, I was practicing and I asked Paul to start and stop my piano for me. As I began I noticed that my scales in sixths were coming out of my cello perfectly. I was able to cross strings without a break in sound and my hands were actually doing what I was asking them to do!

I moved to my etude and found, to my delight, it was the same magic. Getting a little heady, I grabbed my Rachmaninoff and started the fourth (the most difficult) movement. My intonation was great, my hands were quiet but measured and accurate, my bowing was expressive...I felt like I could toss my hands at the fingerboard randomly and my fingers would land exactly where I wanted them to. I finished with a flourish and grinned at Paul (I think I had tears in my eyes). We both knew what was happening, this was one of those days.

Most players, at every level, experience magic at different times. It seems you cannot miss a note, you almost have to work at not being in tune and you hope (against hope) that this fairy dust that you have been sprinkled with today will never wear off.

But, at some point you are going to have to shower and wash that dust off. While working from home you might get away with the not showering for a little longer than normal but, I don't- well, Paul doesn't advise that we do that.

Then come the times when you cannot hit a note to save your life. On those days I feel like I not only could, but actually am tossing my hands at my fingerboard and missing it altogether. My brain will not decipher sharps from flats, A's from E's or in tune from out. I finish without flourish or grin, look at Paul and there really are tears in my eyes this time.

This inconsistency is not just about music. Think about your hair. This is life.

Cold Snap

In Vermont, we don't define our seasons by the what calendars say. They tell us that winter officially begins December 21, so until then, by rights we should be using the term “fall” However, any self-respecting Vermonter knows that winter begins when it very well pleases, with or without warning. I've taken kids trick or treating in costumes with long johns poking out from beneath them and woolen face masks under Mickey Mouse masks....and paid for it with a lot of grumbling.

However we can, normally, count on it being stick season until sometime in December. Don't bring this up with my father or you risk the story about the blizzard we had to drive through to get to my grandmother's for Thanksgiving in 1970-something.

We want brown grass until the week before Christmas and then we want a pile of snow for Santa. Hay to Hallmark.

Obviously the temperature varies as well. When you are caring for animals you have a bit more appreciation for [the temps] temperatures that hang in the thirties, so that when you take off gloves to fill feeders you can actually feel your fingers while doing it.

This year it was me doing the grumbling about the weather- which is the calling card of any true Vermonter; when it rains it should snow, warm should be cold: you get the picture. The report from the Farmer's Almanac (the bible) was for a blustery winter, cold and snowy. This is based on very specific scientific methodology: whether a certain caterpillar has more or less fuzz on it. So I was geared up for cold. Christmas came and went with some snow, more of a brown ground cover, and the temperatures stayed unseasonably warm, in the 40's.

And then the page turned on the calendar. The post-election temperatures were going up while the mercury was going down. The weather predictions on the Internet were calling for a big snow storm that was turning south and going to miss us: we might get a few inches. We peered over Josh's shoulder to see on his phone the exact moment the snow would begin...10:32. We stood in the window at 10:30 and waited and I felt slightly embarrassed as I stood watching. Like The Cloud and Black Holes, I'm not convinced this is something we humans can, or should be able to predict. At least in time increments of minutes. We waited for quite a bit past 10:32 however: having been a teeny bit tardy once or twice in my life, I understood. Finally it did begin to snow, to our delight. And it snowed and it snowed all day long much past a few inches, in fact when all was said and done, we got over a foot.

We began to wake to the rumble of the snowplow each morning before daylight. If we rushed outside and gave a casual wave we might get him to lift his plow for the length of our driveway saving us a lot of heavy shoveling: or we might not depending on whether or not the plow truck driver was fully caffeinated.

We feed animals and collect eggs twice daily, morning and evening. Our animals have learned [ an adjusted meaning of the term “crack of dawn” In Perley-time that means an 8:30 dawn. At our farm the early bird doesn't really get the worm...until a bit later. As January moved forward the temperature plummeted to sub zero, especially at night. When we would go out in the morning and I would need to take off gloves to cut open hay bales or test the waterer in the hen house, my fingers would ache from the cold. We were in a cold snap.

Our hen house has two black lights on the ceiling so that the chickens can stay warm but it can remain dark in the coop at night. They get up on their perch and huddle together shoulder to shoulder. The lights keep them pretty toasty so when I walk in there are contented chicken murmers.

The sheep barn was designed for air flow. Sheep need cross ventilation to prevent a variety of illnesses. This, and the big sliding doors that remain open, make it chilly, no, icy in the blue months. The mother in me overrode the farmer in me and I bought a warming light for the barn. When the temperatures dropped to -25F one night, on went the overhead light. I understand Paul's eye rolling, but it made my heart warmer to do it. The next morning I did have the last laugh when every one of them was inside the barn, some with a chicken on their back, enjoying a respite from the frigid night and getting an early start on a summer tan.

There is no season like winter to reinforce why we are farming. When you have to roll out from underneath flannel sheets and wool blankets (of course) to pull on Muck boots, hats and gloves and crunch outside, your breath steaming like the tea kettle you put on before leaving the house, there has to be a good reason. There is no purposefulness like animals needing food. Ovines are ruminants and need to keep their stomachs moving: sleeping in is no longer an option for us. They stand at the fence of their winter paddock and watch for any movement from the house. Even our window shade going up is signal that breakfast is coming. They don't bellow or yammer, they simply stand in a line and wait, like kids in a school cafeteria. The chickens have come to prefer laying eggs in the sheep barn where we have four laying boxes put up for them. When we first open that coop door and they beeline it for the sheep barn, it looks like they have to use the bathroom....really badly.

Bedding needs replacing, water cleaning and the barnyard needs daily scraping, the key word being daily. No day off. Sam stands near the barn guarding against any possible sheep escape and always faithfully waiting for me to finish chores so that I can then feed him as well. Bronte has an early start on the feeding process and hides near the chicken compost [and eats] eating poop until we holler for her to stop.

Purposefulness=everybody has a job.

There is talk of a Nor'easter coming this week. 2:45 on Tuesday. I'm hoping that we remain right its path so that we get every inch. But I'm not-so-secretly happy that Alexa cannot quite accurately outsmart Mother Nature and hope that it begins at 3:15.

(Follow us on Instagram @paulperleycellos)

Melissa Perley

I'm Afraid Of My A-String

When someone takes up a string instrument for the first time they are reliant on the luthier of the shop to decide on the set up. When we talk about set up we are talking about what strings are on the cello, the tailpiece, bridge, soundpost and how the fingerboard is planed. In our shop we make the determination ourselves by knowing something about the player; how long have they been playing, what kind of playing will they be doing, solo or ensemble, do they have any physical limitations? For a brand new player we will plane the fingerboard so that it is very easy for them to put their strings down- there is enough to learn without needing to lift weights first in order to stop your strings. Another variable is the height of the strings themselves: new players would like to follow the path of least resistance while more experienced players want a bit of push-back.

As people progress on their cello it is natural and good for them to listen to varying styles of music that include the cello. I will often send links for students to hear something that is particular to the music we are working on together. However the challenge becomes when someone begins to make progress and starts to listen to recordings against the sound of their live instrument and, to their ears their cello falls short.

Pretty much 98% of their complaint is about their A string. In listening to recordings, with all of their wonderful reverberation, their live cello sounds more like a clarinet than what they are listening to. Sometimes I am privy to the recording they are listening to and I am quite amazed to find that, while it seems that the video is live, the cello sounds as if it was being played under water. Often included is a lot of hair tossing, frequent scowling and occasional chest hair, which I guess is suppose to make everything OK. And it is always the A string that sounds most unlike that of our own cello..

We want balance across our strings, ideally we try hard to find strings that work, not just as individuals, but as team players. However, as you progress, you will find that your star player is your A. As Paul reminds me, “Your A string is your money string.” Even in finding balance, it is necessary for the A to cut through the fog.

What happens is that electronic enhancement in recordings, among other things softens the edges. Advancing electronics can make a cello sound richer, fuller, deeper, devoid of sizzle. But the one thing it almost never does, is to make it sound like a real cello. In live performance the instrument would come across completely differently. More focused, with more bite and you would love those sharp edges.

In Vermont, the crazy flux in humidity levels wreaks havoc on our sound post placement- too tight one day, not tight enough the next. This, in turn, wreaks havoc on our sound production. I am, for many reasons, incredibly lucky to have Paul: but one reason for sure is that he keeps my cello barking. And that is exactly the word I use. (In a private conversation, out of my earshot, Paul might tell you that he would prefer it if that dog didn't have to be adjusted so it could bark at ten at night however.)

We have to examine our reasoning for wanting our sound diminished with a soft A string. Where you are today as a student will not be where you are tomorrow. Of all the strings, the open A can be the most intimidating. I've watched students do some amazing acrobatics to avoid using an open A. But an open A can be amazingly effective when played well and by well I mean with courage.

Perhaps the adjustment we need to make is not with the instrument and not with the strings...and you know who that always leaves.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: January

The holidays have come and gone. We have made the numerous trips up and down the ladder to the upper storage space in our garage with box after box of decorations. The sparkle of December has left [us] and January has arrived.

In Vermont, January is traditionally one of, if not the coldest month of the year. It is the month when we are most likely to see the thermostat plummet below zero, sometimes for a stretch of frozen days. We don't see much of anyone, Covid or not, because we are hibernating. The rule in our house is that nobody comes in the door without an armload of wood. When returning from an evening walk the final holler is always “everybody grab an armload.” I want to kick the threshold and thunk snow off my boots as I enter the house and run into a wall of heat coming off the stove. There is something wonderfully comforting about the tick of the metal expanding in the stovepipe as things heat up. I quickly pull a chair up and prop my chilly feet on the footrests so kindly designed into our hundred year old wood stove.

This afternoon Paul, Josh and I spent a few hours stuffing wool to be made into blankets into shipping boxes I relished the opportunity to plunge my bare hands into the pile of mitten material. We stacked two wooden planks on top of the wool and labeled all boxes for shipment: my hands, colder by the second, fumbling with the markers that too, did not seem to like working in the cold. Once finished I piled some thawed blueberries into a bowl to feed to the chickens. I stood outside the hen house and did my best chicken impression, calling the ladies in for an afternoon treat. I watched them come running, not out of the coop, of course, but out of the sheep barn. Wings tucked back, they reminded me, somewhat, of Batman racing to the Bat-mobile. I sat down on the milk crate which acts as a step into their laying boxes and began handing out the cold blueberries. It didn't take long as they are pigs as well as chickens, but my hands were now truly blue, in every sense of the word.

I noticed the handle of the barn door mysteriously (or not) bobbing, so I ducked under the door to the hay storage barn to grab a handful of grain for Mrs. Chubbers. Sam followed on my heels because Border Collies find sheep grain a great treat. I'm not sure that Sam likes the treat quite as much as he enjoys taking those treats from the proverbial mouths of the sheep, but either way he was staring me down...and won. The buckets that hold all grain, etc. are of course, metal and not helping the cold of my own paws.

Finally, wool boxed, chickens, sheep and Border pigs sated, I crunch up the road to the house. I sneak in without an armload because I'm afraid my hands are too cold to hold the logs anyway. I open the front door, feel the heat in front of me while the cold pushes from behind and smell food cooking in the oven.

Normally we are all looking for outdoor things to do on our days off. But in January we are content to be still. Paul reads in the living room while Josh works on editing photos from the couch, a fire coming to life in the fireplace. The dogs stretch out with their backs against the warm stones near the stove, understanding that for now, herding is on hold.

The pandemic has heightened our consciousness of living according to the season. January being the time to curl up into our corners. The chaos of the past weeks making us realize the importance of taking this quiet time to think about defining who we are and what is important, or at least acceptable, to each of us. There is something metaphoric about the frozen landscape and the need for patience as we wait for the thaw and the revelation of change.

Morphing

The snow fell here in mid-December. We all cheered because we so needed the holiday season to have some sparkle. It came surreptitiously in the night, rather Santa-like, defying the micro-weather forecasts of no snowfall for our region. We woke in the morning to over eight inches, the grinding of the plow going past and Mother Nature laughing.

We had almost two weeks of snowpack. We got to enjoy the festive look on our wreaths and trees, and kids were outside sledding giving parents a well deserved breather. Then Christmas Eve day, Mother Nature started to chuckle again and dumped a steady cold rain on our heads throughout that day and into Christmas. And, like with all things in 2020, regardless of circumstances, time continued moving forward.

For a performing musician, Covid stopped all work. We turned to each other, on Skype, with quizzical looks, what do we do now? Rehearsals stopped mid-rehearsal, music was returned after holding out for months - just in case - and then there was a profound silence.

At the time it seemed peaceful to have evenings to myself. It felt so strange to have each night of the week free. Performances that had been scheduled a year in advance teetered, unsure of whether to try to have the show go on. We twittered about it online only to make the judicious decision to go silent. I would sit down at my stand to practice and wiffle through my music trying to find my way back without any sense of direction.

This went on for a while as spring blossomed into summer, until I realized something had to change, and that something was me.

We had/have no idea of how long it would be before we could pick up concertising again so perhaps it was time to follow the lead of the rest of life and pare back to necessities; scales, etudes, old and new performance works. I began to find the purpose in myself, rather than in the gig coming up, purpose in my desire to work on being the best musician possible. My days began to take shape around my daily practice schedule and, like with all exercise, I felt my muscles ache and then begin to grow with the discipline. I found that I had time that I had not had in a long while to focus on hearing, intonation, expression, reading and the musician in me responded. It felt amazing to find the joy and pleasure in making music for just me. The applause was internal and as good as any I had before.

I began adding some of this into my teaching. Jen, David and Judy joined the online Covid Cello Project and learned how to utilize practice technique and bring that into the real world. Meg, who has struggled with performing, began playing her instrument for friends and family- using her music to speak. Ellen lifted her music to the universe under the summer skies as a gift to us all. Purpose in the joy- what a revelation.

Listening to VPR in the car the other day, the hosts were talking about the morphing of Covid 19 into another strain of the virus in the UK. The virus is learning quickly to adapt. Its goal is survival. So is ours and so we too must adapt: as people, parents, politicians, musicians.

Something has morphed in me. There is a calm, a stillness in the work that was not there before. It is as if I can see through the notes on the page directly to the meaning written there. Without the added distraction from the outside, my focus is sharpened. I can be the musician that I am right this moment.

After the Christmas rain, trees newly bare again, it felt like November. My sheep sloshed around in cold muck and there was a pallor of anger hanging over us. Cheated again. And again.

Last night the wind came down the mountain, a slow moan crescendo-ing into a roar as it swatted the tree tops round. Somewhere in that roaring I thought I heard laughter.

This morning we woke up, peeked outside and it was if the clock had been turned back- everything was covered in white once again.

Perhaps one of the lessons in our experiences this year is recognizing that it is not just the virus that is capable of morphing into another strain of itself. Who we were does not have to be who we are. We have the freedom to change course, we don't need permission from anyone else to do that. Pre-Covid we could be one kind of parent, Post Covid we have morphed into another. Pre-Covid we did one kind of work, Post Covid perhaps we have discovered new talents we didn't realize we had, love we didn't know was as abiding as it is, patience and perseverance we did not know we possessed.

You and I decide the kind of musician and person we want to be. Sometimes clarity comes when it is preceded by confusion and frustration. As Maya Angelou reminded us, “Chaos today, does not dictate chaos tomorrow.”

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: Holidays

There is light snow cover on the ground as we head into December. I’ve pulled on my heavier coat and my boots crunch as I head toward the barn for the evening feeding. Winter has arrived.

The holiday season has arrived as well. As time during Covid continued, I felt a sense of questioning as to whether or not the holidays would actually happen. My logical brain told me of course they would. My emotional brain questioned that. How could the holiday season, normally filled with such sparkle, come in such a challenging time?

Our son and daughter-in-law had purchased plane tickets to come home for Christmas from LA. Living across the country, we don't get the chance to see them more than one a year, at best. This past week they called and told us that they had canceled their trip due to the recent shut downs in LA and the gathering restrictions in Vermont. My logical brain understood and even felt a tiny bit of relief in not having to worry about any of us inadvertently contracting the virus, my emotional brain wept.

Paul has played the Messiah in Stowe for over twenty five years. It has become a staple in our holiday season. Many times we have arrived in a large group, covered in ugly Christmas sweaters, singing various parts that have nothing whatsoever to do with the section we are sitting in, and felt grounded by the purpose and the community joining voices in such beautiful music. This year the church will be dark and there will be no soprano falsetto coming from the bass section.

Each year we open the holiday season by attending A Christmas Carol at the Flynn Theater in Burlington. We arrive in a large group, covered in ugly Christmas sweaters (see the pattern?) and settle into the beautiful old theater to watch a production that we have seen, year after year since our kids were small. The theater is always full and we sit arm to arm. Everyone relishes the warmth after walking to the theater in the frigid December night air. Paul leans back into his winter coat wrapped around him on his seat and begins to doze before the production begins and my elbow prompts him back to sitting upright. Afterward as we walk quietly back up the empty street past the darkened stores toward our parked car, our son Ethan recaps the production, both in song and, if we are lucky, in spinning and dancing. His breath visible as he lifts his voice to the stars. Not this year.

Our traditions make us feel safe. They give shape to important occasions and help our children to understand what family means. I feel adrift without those traditions. Can I live without them? Certainly. But I miss them terribly. Besides, it is really difficult to drink hot chocolate with a mask on.

For the evening feeding I slide open the hay-barn door, heft a half-bale into my arms and crunch across the snow to the sheep-barn door. Mrs. Chubbers nose greets me, sniffing around for her grain fix. As I turn to close the door I look up at the barn light over the doorway. I notice fat flakes of snow drifting down through the shaft of light. I tilt my head up and watch the snow fall silently from the black of the night sky. I can see stars overhead watching me. In the silence this feels like everything and it feels like nothing. I take in a deep breath and taste the peace of it all. I'm reminded, almost jolted to it, that it really is everything; right there, right then: that moment has everything in it that I have been concerned about missing. All I have to do is be in it.

Happy Holidays. I wish you all moments of peace with everything in them and the wisdom to find them; in your children's faces, the falling snow, beautiful music and each other.

Melissa Perley

Learning To Hear

There are only a few leaves left to rattle as the north wind blows down from the mountain. When I step outside at night for an evening walk, the new cold both makes my breath visible and then quickly steals it away.

I find myself standing in the road looking up. Without the canopy I am much more aware of the massiveness of the sky. Paul and I point fingers at the milky way and what we think are constellations. There is a soft dusting of snow on the ground that muffles our footsteps.

I'm acutely aware of the winter silence in the season of darkness: it is as if I am wearing a hat tugged down over my ears. I can still hear, but there is a new and unique stillness. There is something so peaceful in hearing the nothing.

The word “hearing” has taken its rightful place beside “metronome”, “drone,” and “connection” as some of my favorite musical terms. We have been talking lately about how to listen, not just to the notes you are playing, but to your instrument. While teaching over Skype, I have found that the high frequencies and almost-pure pitch make it easy for me to hear when a note has settled into tune on a student's cello. This is about hearing “the ring” so it is an ear-thing, but it is also visceral for me, so it is also about a gut-thing. When I ask if someone can feel in their stomach when a note has dropped into correct placement, it often elicits a quizzical look. But I am convinced that developing an intimate relationship with our instruments allows us to “hear” when that instrument speaks to us.

When you play a note, all the overtone series on the other three strings are “excited” to more or less a degree depending on what note you are playing. It assumes, of course, that your instrument is in tune. This, technically, is “the ring.”

For a while, students feel that they can create good intonation with their eyes. They watch themselves finger notes in a scale, for example, and use pure logic to put their finger in the right place. Some also choose to watch their tuners when playing, further training their eyes rather than their ears. While calling plaintively to logic and straining their eyes they forget the two appendages on the side of their head. I like to remind people that logic and musicality are a marriage made in heaven and to remember that “it is a scale.”

While all in-tune notes ring, to some degree, the amount of ring that a note produces is determined by the strength of the overtone series on the other three strings. The D on the A string for example, is a super ringy note. I like to use it to help people hear, especially when beginning to vibrate. The oscillation around the D gives off a rather gravelly, fuzzy sound (these are technical terms, use with care) which allows the true D to sit in the center of the vibration, when you hear the D come into its own- you are hearing the ring. I visualize that ring in Vermont terms; we learn that a white ring around the moon means snow. When listening to my cello I use my vibrato to help me put the note into the center of the wobble and locate pitch. Think of it as musical-sonar.

Interestingly, I not only hear when the note drops into the center of the ditch, but I feel it. When you are inside of the music, living the piece you are playing, really listening, a centered pitch feels good in your gut, while shaky intonation doesn't make you feel anything. To work on this we play any scale and play each note with vibrato, holding the note until the student “hears” the pitch against a drone. They can adjust the note in either direction but not move to the next note until they “like” the note they just played, both in their ear and in their gut. They are no longer learning just to play a scale, but more important, they are learning to hear.

One might think that experience in hearing could mean the secret to perfect intonation. Don't we wish. .

There is a very sage saying, “You will never be more satisfied with your intonation than you are right this very moment.”

I hear that.

Melissa Perley

What We Can Learn From A Barnyard

These past two weeks have been especially difficult for us all; the chaos of Covid coupled with the hurricane surrounding the election. We have had to find solace in the small, and be comforted by the familiar. For me that has meant the routine in doing farm chores. Each morning, the moment I close the front door of the house, the sheep begin calling for breakfast. Musicians are not early risers, we live the life of the vampire rather than the rooster. I put a little pep in my step so that they know I am on breakfast business. As I creak open the barn door I am immediately greeted by the head of Mrs. Chubbers, as she manages to wedge herself into the crack of the door the minute it opens. She begins snorting in a rather undignified, pig-like manner, rooting around my pockets for possible grain. Grain is the sugar cereal of the sheep world and I prefer not to give them grain as it adds extra pounds that they don't need. However, Mrs. Chubbers has needed some medication for joint stiffness and, like with kids, I hide it in her food. Once I had done that a few times, more elephant-like than pig, she did not forget and I did not have the heart not to continue our private morning ritual.

Once I have thrown hay from the loft into the barn and filled their feeders, they begin to eat and peace descends. Periodically they look up at me from their food, mouths stuffed with sweet hay, contentedly chewing. As they tug it out of the feeder they often get streamers of it on their heads making it look as if they have just attended the most raucous birthday party ever.

Suddenly there is the hen explosion. We have created a little chicken-door that allows them into the winter sheep paddock so there can be some neighborly mingling. The hens charge over after they have spent time in their own yard pecking the millet or cracked corn that I have spread. They've successfully chased out the resident bluejay and are now ready for ovine visitation.

I often stand, leaning on my pitchfork, and watch the scene. The barn windows are open, sunshine mingles with the cool November wind. The chickens often hop up onto the back of a ewe: sometimes pairs of them will balance as the sheep munches. She looks up at me as if to say, “are you the one responsible for this balance beam act?” And of course I am. The hens make soft clucking noises unless they have just laid an egg. We built two nesting boxes in the sheep barn out of politeness for the travel efforts of their neighbors. If an egg has been laid the whole neighborhood knows it: the laying hen begins to cluck as loudly as possible with distinct punctuations. I hear her, literally. I felt that same pride after birthing one of my own egglets.

In the barnyard everyone has their place. The symbiotic relationship between the animals is more than simply physical. In this space peace reigns. There is a leader (Mrs. C.. of course), who rules calmly and quietly. She leads her flock away from danger but is also willing to wait in line with them for her food. Her goals always for the good of the whole.

The hens are small but everyone, especially them, understand their importance. They poke in and out of the sheep's legs squawking should a ewe dare to mistakenly step near them. The fact that they are smaller than the others bothers them not at all. If they want a better view, they simply get a lift up from their taller friends.

In the barnyard there are many colors, shapes and sizes but nobody judges. Everybody is willing to share what they bring to the table and even leave an egg or two behind.

Is it any wonder that I want to spend time in their world?

Sometimes I will sneak out in the evening and sit with them under the stars. They stand close to me and I can feel their warm breath moving my hair. I look around and wonder if maybe we all need to create a paddock, physical or otherwise that creates for us the peace of the barnyard.

Melissa Perley

Elbow Grease

In Vermont we ease out of summer about mid-August. Around August 15 you need to throw on a sweatshirt to start the day. The shadows begin to lengthen and the blue of the sky seems to get lighter. No self-respecting Vermonter would think of vacationing at the lake in mid or late August.

We cruise into fall fairly easily, enjoying the first nights of coming into the house to the warmth of the early wood stove season. But sometime in the second week of October things change and we all feel it. Maybe there is something in that colder wind coming from the north, or, perhaps it is our genetics reminding us about things that have happened for hundreds of years. We know the window is closing on the brief time between stick season and outright winter.

We get up on the days that we aren't “working” to begin working. This year new garden beds need to replace the old ones that have begun to sink into the earth. The grazing season has ended and sheep need to be moved into the upper paddock for the winter. Each time I walk outside they see me and holler their disapproval at this new arrangement. Out come socks to replace tattered flip flops and we find ourselves craving heartier foods to satisfy our constant hunger from the constant work.

I've been noticing more work from my cello students as well. On one hand, this is a good thing, on the other, it isn't. Virtual, kinda virtual, half-time, in-person..school has started again. Students who are in school are back under more pressure again. Parents who study are now having to divide their limited practice time in order to be sure that their kids are getting everything they need and verify that they are indeed wearing those dang blue computer glasses. Students who are working from home have to bend practicing and lessons around virtual conference calls, around bosses who think being home means being open for business 24/7.

Everyone is finding that they are having trouble finding time for everything. So the cello sits quiet for the first several (four seems a good round number) days post lesson. Suddenly, the student realizes that a new week has dawned, a new lesson is around the corner and begins to practice. Time is short, so instead of creating muscle memory by being on the cello daily, they are going to create a memory of something by playing for 4 hours straight on Saturday alone: “that should do it.” The reality is that the memory created is one of angst and pain. By continually practicing the entirety of the pieces over and over, everything may get somewhat better, but the trouble measures will always remain significantly behind the better measures. The term elbow grease comes to mind. In a lesson, people will look at me while struggling with a piece, and say “I played this a hundred times yesterday.. I don't understand why I can't make it work.” I'll ask gently if they used their metronome and isolated the parts that they were having trouble with, “well, no.” (they are honest at least), then I'll ask if they used a drone to tighten the intonation they are complaining about (and, by the way - that we discussed doing in the last lesson) “um..no, not this week” The reliance is then on repetition; good, bad and ugly being repeated.

Players who are struggling work the parts that they do well and make them feel good, seasoned players concentrate on the parts that they don't do well.

There is another kind of elbow grease that I've seen a lot of lately and that is actual, physical elbow grease- the push. The brain is working so hard to figure out the notes, the rhythm, and where it all goes, the physical manifestation of all that energy comes out mainly in the left hand. Most of the time people don't realize that they are exerting a lot more force than necessary to put a string down. Often this push is accompanied by a bit of a Casal grunt as well. They are going to be really sure that string goes down, and hopefully with enough push, on the correct note while they are at it. Like any physical manifestation of stress, this is difficult to correct. Unfortunately, simply telling someone “don't do that” doesn't work. This is where using a mirror is helpful. This helps people see when they are grinding their jaw, holding their breath or lifting their elbow and shoulder to emphasize the act of putting the string down. Working on repertoire and etudes that are well within or even a little below a player's ability is also helpful in encouraging relaxation when playing. This can be a real challenge with some players: even with an explanation of the importance of going backward to move forward, they don't relish what they see as a demotion.

Tension in all forms is the anti-cello.

Winter is coming, save the elbow grease for the shovel.

Melissa Perley

Death Visits The Farm

When we decided to bring animals onto our land it brought not only the purposefulness that we sought, but also happiness. It is joyful to watch our Border Collies guide sheep down to the fields in the mornings. I feel peace in walking into the sheep barn in the evenings: the ewes look up from their feeding, startled, heads and faces covered with hay. It makes me laugh to drive into the driveway and watch the chickens come bombing around the corner to press against the fence and witness my arrival. My only true experience as a rock star. However, as in all of life, we also knew that the reality of lightness is dark and, though unwelcome, death is a regular visitor to farms.

I noticed one of our pullets was separating herself from the flock. In all flock animals, the act of deliberately distancing from the safety of the flock or herd can only indicate something not right. In the course of the next couple of days, despite attempts to hand feed her and to carry her back to the flock, she continued to slide downhill. On the fourth day I walked into the coop to find her completely alone in a corner, tilting left. I walked over and gently lifted her to put her into the comfort of the hen house and she made a half-hearted attempt to flap out of my arms but fell over in the process, gave a long squawk, took several stilted breaths and died at my feet. I stood there, stunned. As her body folded into the ground I had a hard time grasping the reality of what had just happened.

Two days later, one of my Brahmas began acting the same way the Bard Rock had previously. She wouldn't come over to eat, hung around the yard instead of investigating the sheep paddock with the others and acting overall dumpy. I fussed and worried over her, even had bad chicken dreams, but, as with all worry, it didn't do any good. I lost her as well.

In talking with my vet about possible causes, we came up with the possibility of their food being culprit. Due to Covid, a lot of locally sourced livestock feed producers were having trouble sourcing certain vitamins and nutrients. In addition some of the food may been sitting in warehouses in storage for too long. Young hens are especially reliant on their vitamin D intake for good development. I immediately got rid of the rest of the 50 pound bag of food (causing Paul to feel ill) and brought in standard chicken pellets. In between students I would race out to the coop to toss cracked corn, which I had been warned might make them fat...which is, at this point, exactly what I wanted. And things turned around. Death took his crook and vamoosed....for now.

There were several things that I felt watching my first farm death; the hens had been feeling ill, that was clear, but, despite that, their last moments were full of struggle to hang onto life. It truly shook me to watch them flap and squawk only to tip over into death. Alive one moment and dead the next. It seemed silly, even to me, to not fully comprehend this; I have given birth and I have seen death. I did not feel that the fact that they were “only” chickens made it any less relevant. At that moment, they represented everyone and everything. In those final seconds, I watched my hens wrestle with death, holler to chase it away, flap to stay with their flock. To no avail.

I called my friend Renee, who owns a cattle farm, but also raises chickens. I told her my story and she was quiet for a minute and then said “Well, you’re a chicken farmer now.” Life makes farming fun. Death makes farming real.

In the weeks following, I find myself more appreciative of my slightly smaller flock. I notice tinier details in their behavior and take time to bring out handfuls of blueberries and sit with them as they peck them from my hand. I listen for the Blue Jay screaming at me to get out of the way of his flight path to the leftover cracked corn. I enjoy the sunshine filtered through the still-colorful fall leaves while leaning back against an old maple. I take the time to really be there.

Interesting, especially now, to note how we never fully appreciate what we have until it has been changed, or, until we no longer have it.

Melissa Perley

Beginning Again...?

The hills are ablaze with color. Paul, Josh and I have been spending our weekend days hiking various mountains and trails and enjoying being nestled at our home beneath Irish Hill on Berlin Pond. Like the squirrels that are racing back and forth across our stone walls, we, too, are bustling around preparing for winter. Once the calendar turns to October, Vermonters know they have limited time before the colorful hillside turns white.

The Road Home.

After making the decision to keep the cello studio in virtual mode, it is back to full time teaching. Skype lessons mean that traveling lesson to lesson is pretty much instantaneous. A good thing for being prompt and keeping my schedule, a bad thing if I feel the need to use the bathroom or eat something. Sometimes I stash cashews off to the side of the computer and lean left to pop a few in my mouth as I teach, hoping that I'm not asked a question in that particular moment.

In late summer I was contacted by a few new people seeking lessons. I was able to find a way to find time for them in the line up and we have begun studying together. One of my students was an excellent tuba player throughout high school and beyond, another two played the cello through grade school and high school, and still another studied through college. Different instruments, different people, same story of starting over.

It’s hard to begin anything, especially as an adult with a fully formed ego. In our minds, we believe that we can seamlessly return to any activity that we did well as a child or young adult. One big heartbreak of my life was having my new husband watch me do a round-off cartwheel on the shore of Prince Edward Island only to, almost immediately, crouch in agony as I pulled some muscle that included my bum. The hot tears spilling down my face had much more to do with the fact that I, once more comfortable on my hands than feet, was now unable to do a simple round-off! My new (important ego vulnerability) husband raced over to me with concern in his eyes as I lay crumpled on the sand, pretty sure by my position (and tears) that I had fractured one of the big bones, only to be surprised as I sat upright and explained that the true pain was much worse than a big-bone-break; my ten-year-old gymnast heart had been broken.

It takes bravery to come to or come back to the cello after many years without musical study. We are sure that we are going to remember everything we had learned long ago, only to find that, in the first lesson we can't remember what “clef” even means, let alone where to find one. I have found that when someone has studied primarily in a school program, where their teacher's primary instrument may have been something other than strings, certain key things about playing the cello may have been left out. To be fair, when school music teachers are surrounded by teens brimming with hormones, just keeping everyone's attention amid the chaos is difficult enough: if they are hanging onto the bow and some sound is coming out...it's a good day in the orchestra.

This leaves my adult students surprised when they have to go backward to come forward. To them, shifting must have just been invented and seems akin to the new algebra.

I'm finding that the biggest difficulty, once again, lies within. A kid's success in music is often because they are so easily able to let go of mistakes while adults agonize (aka obsess) over them. When you are returning to something that seemed to come so easily when you were a child your ego takes a hit. I am learning that an important part of my teaching is both the observation of and attention to that fact.

Adults find it imperative to point up each mistake, making sure I know that they know. This leads to stopping in each measure, inserting unique vocalization and beginning again. And again. It is necessary for me to establish the emotional safety of the studio and encourage them to be willing to be honest about what seems unfamiliar.

It is my belief that only when we are willing to put ourselves into a teachers hands, fully trust the process and admit that we might not know all we thought we did, that we can indeed start from the beginning again. Which is, after all, where the path begins.

Melissa Perley

Beginning Again...?

The hills are ablaze with color. Paul, Josh and I have been spending our weekend days hiking various mountains and trails and enjoying being nestled at our home beneath Irish Hill on Berlin Pond. Like the squirrels that are racing back and forth across our stone walls, we, too, are bustling around preparing for winter. Once the calendar turns to October, Vermonters know they have limited time before the colorful hillside turns white.

After making the decision to keep the cello studio in virtual mode, it is back to full time teaching. Skype lessons mean that traveling lesson to lesson is pretty much instantaneous. A good thing for being prompt and keeping my schedule, a bad thing if I feel the need to use the bathroom or eat something. Sometimes I stash cashews off to the side of the computer and lean left to pop a few in my mouth as I teach, hoping that I'm not asked a question in that particular moment.

In late summer I was contacted by a few new people seeking lessons. I was able to find a way to find time for them in the line up and we have begun studying together. One of my students was an excellent tuba player throughout high school and beyond, another two played the cello through grade school and high school, and still another studied through college. Different instruments, different people, same story of starting over.

Its hard to begin anything, especially as an adult with a fully formed ego. In our minds, we believe that we can seamlessly return to any activity that we did well as a child or young adult. One big heartbreak of my life was having my new husband watch me do a round-off cartwheel on the shore of Prince Edward Island only to, almost immediately, crouch in agony as I pulled some muscle that included my bum. The hot tears spilling down my face had much more to do with the fact that I, once more comfortable on my hands than feet, was now unable to do a simple round-off! My new (important ego vulnerability) husband raced over to me with concern in his eyes as I lay crumpled on the sand, pretty sure by my position (and tears) that I had fractured one of the big bones, only to be surprised as I sat upright and explained that the true pain was much worse than a big-bone-break; my ten-year-old gymnast-heart had been broken.

It takes bravery to come to or come back to the cello after many years without musical study. We are sure that we are going to remember everything we had learned long ago, only to find that, in the first lesson we can't remember what “clef” even means, let alone where to find one. I have found that when someone has studied primarily in a school program, where their teacher's primary instrument may have been something other than strings, certain key things about playing the cello may have been left out. To be fair, when school music teachers are surrounded by teens brimming with hormones, just keeping everyone's attention amid the chaos is difficult enough: if they are hanging onto the bow and some sound is coming out...it's a good day in the orchestra.

This leaves my adult students surprised when they have to go backward to come forward. To them, shifting must have just been invented and seems akin to the new algebra.

I'm finding that the biggest difficulty, once again, lies within. A kid's success in music is often because they are so easily able to let go of mistakes while adults agonize (aka obsess) over them. When you are returning to something that seemed to come so easily when you were a child your ego takes a hit. I am learning that an important part of my teaching is both the observation of and attention to that fact.

Adults find it imperative to point up each mistake, making sure I know that they know. This leads to stopping in each measure, inserting unique vocalization and beginning again. And again. It is necessary for me to establish the emotional safety of the studio and encourage them to be willing to be honest about what seems unfamiliar.

It is my belief that only when we are willing to put ourselves into a teachers hands, fully trust the process and admit that we might not know all we thought we did, that we can indeed start from the beginning again. Which is, after all, where the path begins.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep. And Chickens?

Not long after the sheep arrived and the final nail had been hammered into the sheep barn, I turned to Paul and mentioned how much I'd love to add chickens to the mix. He asked me to repeat myself, not because he couldn't hear me, but because he was incredulous. He wasn't really able to say too much- a bit of mumbling, stammering and staggering. Because I love him and didn't want to kill him, I let it go.

Once the snow was off the ground I felt it was safe to try to get “Project Hen House” off the ground again. This time Paul’s incredulous had been downgraded to a cross between grudging acceptance and a bit of interest. Josh, Paul and one of my students and friend, Jeff, began working on building the coop and I began researching hens.

I knew that I didn't want a rooster- too many whispered horror stories from conversations at my neighbors hen house. I wanted enough chickens to withstand some attrition (although, let it be known I really don't want any attrition) but not so many that it was overwhelming. Our project philosophy is always to begin well within your comfort zone. I decided on ten.

Breeds- who knew? Once again, each night I was buried in a farm book, this time I was reading about chickens. So many breeds: feathers on feet?, blue eggs? Large, small, medium? Once again I defaulted to the comfort zone; I chose breeds that were described as “good for the backyard chicken farmer”- aka- easy. I ordered: 4 Barred Rocks, 2 Brahmas (yes, it was the fuzzy feet), 2 Rhode Island Reds and 2 Buff Orpingtons.

I have a good friend, Renee, who owns a nearby diary farm but sidelines in chickens. She orders approximately 40 chicks each season and said she would be happy to include mine with hers: the more the merrier. I would buy chick food, have visitation rights and pick them up once they were Adolescents.

Like all expectant parents we took what we termed “our last vacation” in July. We got a sheep sitter to come each day to the farm while we spent a week at the lake. When we returned I grabbed my muck boots and headed for Renee's farm, crate in the back of the car.

Remember the scene in Rocky I when his grizzled trainer had him chase chickens to increase his speed? He growled and said “if you can catch a chicken- you've got speed!” Turns out that wasn't just movie talk. Fortunately, my brood had been separated from the original group so at least we didn't have to chase and sift. Finally we got the last of them into the crate: screeching like any self respecting teen.

Once home they spent three days quarantining in the coop. This is necessary to teach them where their new “home” is so that, come sunset, they will return to roost. Finally, day four, we opened the side door, complete with a little chicken, or chicken little, ramp to their yard. They came careening out of the house, shavings flying all around. Once in the yard they raced back and forth a bit, squawking and flapping. Some mock fights to establish the pecking order then they settled down to scavenge for bugs.

Chickens are really curious little dinosaurs. Each morning I walk to down to let them out and they are always crowded at the windows of their front door looking for me. Their funny little heads titling back and forth in anticipation, continuous guttural chicken chatter going on.

We haven't been quite brave enough to let them free range. Living in the woods, we often see fox, coyote and members of the weasel family sneaking around. The day after the chickens moved in we heard a Broad-Winged hawk screaming his welcome from a nearby branch. While the ladies have a large area for being outside of their coop, Paul made an adjoining gate to the sheep barnyard for additional space for them. They come running when I head over to open the extra gate in the morning once I have taken the sheep down to their summer fields. They then spend their day playing king of the manure pile, pecking flies and sheep poop and bedding down deeply into the straw inside the barn. One evening I brought the sheep up a little early and the door was open from the barnyard to the chicken yard. I had thought about what that meant for chickens paying neighborly visits, but had not fully processed that the passage goes in both directions; I wandered out and noticed a large, white-fleeced rump sticking out of the chicken door going into the coop. I opened the front door and a startled Daisy looked up at me. She didn't have any particular agenda, although if she could have reached the hanging food, she would have partaken of a hen-snack. She just seemed quite content to check things out. Some of the hens were sitting above her on their roost watching her watching them.

Adding chickens has added work to my life. There are new morning chores each day that need to be done, rain or shine. Each evening I button up the sheep then head over to the hen house for a visit. They are roosting quietly but for the occasional clucks. I make sure that the gate is latched with Paul's twenty-step locking safety system and shut the front door softly.

Often I find myself standing outside the buildings enjoying the stars. One of the sheep might be standing, front feet up on a stump, looking out at me, but all is quiet. We have found the deep satisfaction and purposefulness that we began all this for. These are things that keep us outside of ourselves and yet are inherently a part of us.

Did someone hear oinking?

Melissa Perley

Eye On The Prize

In Vermont you can almost set your watch by the beginning of the seasonal change. August fifteenth we begin to see the shadows lengthen. As I walk the sheep down to their pasture in the morning, the grass is newly wet, as I walk them back up the hill at night, I'm in the dark. Suddenly we feel the need to close our windows a bit in the evening, retiring our fans. If I look closely at the hillside I can begin to see change; the green, so vibrant in June and July, is slightly faded, a bit of yellow here, a dab of orange there. All are signals that fall and winter are bearing down.

I've often thought it would be nice if life put up a flag when something momentous is about to occur. Wouldn't it be helpful to see a red flag waving, look at it, turn to your partner and say “something's coming...”

Last Tuesday I was swimming in the river, floating on my back with the knowledge that my time swimming was short. Last Wednesday I noticed some flashing lights in my right eye. As someone whose occasional migraine headaches are precipitated by an aura, I assumed that this was what I was dealing with. Throughout the next day I would catch a shooting star type of light whiz through my right visual field. I'd swipe at an invisible hair or insect. Paul noticed and asked me what was going on.

Last Saturday morning Paul turned to me and asked, gently, “would you please call your eye doctor.” And, because he was so quietly concerned, and because I knew deep down I should: I did.

Last Sunday morning I was sitting in an examining chair in the ophthalmologist office. After a long period of eyeball adjusting (which is as bad as it sounds) I was told that I had a tear in the retina of my right eye. What this meant was that I needed to go to a surgeon to have it repaired by laser surgery. Not next week, not tomorrow. Now.

Paul and I drove to the surgeon's Sunday afternoon. My pile of ripe tomatoes sat on the counter no longer needed for the dinner party we were supposed to attend that evening. My surgeon came around the corner in full exercise gear: although on call, he apparently was going to get some running in. I quickly found out that the running was going to be mutual. He motioned for us to follow and I leaped out of the car to catch him. We zipped down the empty hallways, we had masks up but I wished I had thrown on my running shoes like he had. He talked quickly as we moved, taking in the bits of my history cutting me off once he heard words that mattered to him. I sat down in the chair, my head spinning a little with confusion at the speed of all of this, and that I was slightly out of breath from the running.

He quickly put more drops in my already dilated eyes. I tasted them in my mouth as they ran into my mask. I hoped that my tongue didn't dilate as well.

More eyeball manipulating, only he used something that reminded me of a cooking spoon used for meatballs. Yes, I did have tear but fortunately only one on the right retina, medium sized but “what made me special” was that it had crossed a blood vessel so I was bleeding behind my eye. Now, the gross-out factor of this is that I could see that blood..behind my eye. It is rather like a dark amoeba creeping across my visual field. One really should not be able to see the inside of their body parts. It feels creepy and oddly intrusive.

Within a few minutes I was in another room laying on a bed. “People can pass out from this surgery.”

I was also told that the blinding flashes of light might trigger a migraine. this was indeed icing on the cake.

At this point I just wanted to get it going to get it over with and he, clearly, was late for a marathon.

I had no idea what to expect besides the passing out and a migraine, and so we began. There was a blinding white light followed by a blinding green light accompanied by a rhythmic hammer sound- which, I learned, was the laser burning a fence, of sorts, around my tear.

As a Shepherd it was interesting to note that there are 288 fence-posts around my tear.

I should explain how this happened, if I am able to. Apparently we are born with a vitreous fluid in the interior our eye and as we age it sloughs off. If, during the sloughing, it tugs too hard on our retina, we develop a tear. The key phrase in that sentence is “as we age”. A retinal tear doesn't happen to you unless you are, for example, a rugby player and get belted in the eye or unless you are aging, aged.

When I got home Sunday evening, I was dazed and dilated and, being honest, addled. The addled part was evident in my admittedly incorrect thought process, that this would be a quick fix and post surgery life would continue as normal. No dinner party, but life would go on.

Monday morning I opened my eyes and saw, what appeared to be, several black threads moving around my right visual field. It was the reverse of the feeling you have when you wake up from a particularly bad dream and are so grateful it wasn't real. This was real and I got up realizing that this was what I was going to be looking through for the unforeseeable future.

I spent a lot of that first day weeping.. All would have been OK had I fallen mountain climbing, or wrestling a bear. But I had done nothing except age. In looking inward I realized that the surgeon may have nicked my ego while fencing my eye. As someone who has, fortunately, been very healthy all of my life, I was a person who thought that my healthy eating and exercising would put a protective barrier around me. Although this was certainly not the worst thing that could happen, it was something and it was my first surprise-something and there had been no red flag warning me it was coming. My wise oldest son likened it to having my knees swiped out from under me.

Sitting down to practice I was tentative. My biggest fear being losing the ability to see music. Interestingly, as I continued to play and got deeper and deeper into the music, my brain let go of seeing the amoebas and only saw the notes. Once I stopped, squiggling commenced, but I was filled with relief.

As I move further away from the incident, I realize that this, too, is a process. It is all part of the whole; the fear, the pain, the feeling of betrayal, the reckoning and finally, the healing. I thought about how many times I have talked with students about staying on the path, continuing to walk when it feels unwalkable. Recognizing that it is all OK.

What is important is giving ourselves permission to feel what we feel for as long as we feel it. And I would like the chance to remind my surgeon to try to see things through his patients’ eyes (literally), but I doubt I can catch him.

I like to think that with age comes wisdom, and that I can take this, move forward and remember to be patient, kind and caring when someone is on their path and it is rocky and seems impassable. To simply be willing to take their hand and walk alongside them.

Melissa Perley