Inch by inch

The three-year-olds sang “up like a rocket, down like rain, ’round and round like a choo-choo train” to demonstrate how well they could attach bows to their pint-sized violins. Staying home with Nick, it was my husband who enjoyed the distinctive privilege of delighting, firsthand, in this child’s first steps. I only got the post-recital smile, the one I always get when I think of the smaller musicians among us, while listening to the full recap of their afternoon in Westport. We had been through that drill four times. The “taca-taca-stop-stop” rhythms on the A and E strings; the “Mississippi is a river”; and enough Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to practically send us into orbit around them. I’m the first to admit it: After the fourth child got over the “flashes,” I honestly thought that if I didn’t hear that song again, it would be fine with me.

But then, talking about the recital during the first dinner we shared alone for the last three weeks, I couldn’t help but romanticize the whole process. As I reflected on the last thirteen years of violin lessons, I thought of those first pieces of the recital, of dressing Cristina in hand-gathered dresses with white stockings and black patent leather shoes, and of the first time that two of them played the Concert. by Bach. for two violins on stage one mother’s day. Yesterday, just as my daughter took the stage to perform, the school principal gave a speech for a couple of minutes to encourage the other parents. Those with babies who barely “blink” need to understand that in no time, they too will witness mastery up close and personal. If only they could stick with him long enough …

Sticking to anything is hard enough. In this burdened world of ours, where emails have replaced handwritten letters; “Instant messaging” has replaced unhurried phone chat; And digital photos sent over the Internet have replaced personal visits – it’s no wonder few of us have the patience to master them. To endure the day to day until the image is 100% complete. During this time in which we find ourselves, business and life move at the speed of thought. And we can hardly wait for that thought to finish so we can move on to the next one. (Have you ever caught yourself finishing someone else’s sentence?)

We are great beginners, each one of us. Because starting something just requires us to overcome the law of inertia (and maybe a bit of temptation as well). Getting our bottoms off the couch and into the art studio to paint or lifting our legs off the stool and onto the treadmill requires overcoming inertia and the temptation to relax with too much television. Finishing the cupcake after school to get the violin out of the case doesn’t just require overcoming inertia; it also requires serious discipline. But each act is much easier than incorporating it into your everyday reality. In fact, going from the first piece of a music book to a full concert is something else entirely. (Like going from a beginning painter to one who exhibits in galleries or from a soft and overweight couch sitter to a hard-bodied athlete who enjoys both physical strength and aerobic endurance.)

When I reveled in hearing my daughter perform a beautiful movement from a Handel concert today (in a private post-recital concert just for me), I was taken by surprise by its parallel with the roughly three-year battle of resistance. that our son now faces with leukemia. As my daughter navigates toward mastery, I couldn’t help but think of all the violin battles we’ve had over the years when she was just taking her first steps toward mastery of music. To hate practicing, to hate playing scales, to hate those nasty studies. The movement of the eyes, the slam of the door and the stomping of the feet on each step of the wooden staircase. And yet here we were, enjoying the fruits of all those days of practice. It was a goose bumps moment that couldn’t be denied. It was proof positive that the domain comes in inches and not miles. And it was a lesson for me that health battles, catastrophes or economic difficulties are not fought in three years. They fight inch by inch.

It was my girlfriend, Lisa, who sent me the line “inch by inch is a piece of cake.” He met me with him when I needed him most. He met me when I was trying to turn three years of chemotherapy treatments into one day. When I was trying to calculate the math of a three-year chemotherapy roadmap with high school graduation and the first two years of college away from home. Three years of immunosuppression with three other children and a husband who was flying during flu season. And six months of long trips to the out-of-town clinic with snow storms in New England.

However, I must claim “inch by inch” these days. I claim it when Nick’s hematologist presents the plan for the day. I claimed it on Friday when they sent us back to the hospital for the day and another night. And I even got Dr. Joe to claim it with me. Together, we agreed not to worry about what next week, or next year, will bring; it’s just too much to think about. We agreed to approach the battle inch by inch.

Whatever your personal struggle or current concern: adopt a positive action plan “inch by inch is a piece of cake.” As I’ve often said: ask yourself at the end of each day, “Did I keep going?” And if you did, even by an inch, you can sleep soundly with the assurance that you will triumph on this journey of life. One day, not far from now, inch by inch, you will celebrate mastery. You will celebrate the fullness. You will celebrate the complete healing.