My four o:clock alarm clock yanks me out of bed and I stretch and ride my bike and shower, drink orange juice, and go to my studio, and work with my cellos and violins.
I work like this everyday. In the rain. In the snow. In the heat. In the sadness and disappointments of life. In the victories. In the sicknesses.
I work making my body and instruments one. I work to make my heart beat in time with the work of a master from another time, who worked a different schedule to work out his or her unity of creative interpretation.
This I do not get paid for. This work I do for no monetary pay. This I work for family. And tradition. And responsibility.
And for the different scent of joy this brings. A flower set in the front of the garden. An aroma of order that perfumes the work for the work.
But when it is time to play, I play, I have fun, I express joy. And I get paid. The money is good.
But the reward of work, is greater.
This is just one work, in a garden of works, I selected for this work. A work passed down to me, through blood, and a strict rod of discipline.
I have other works, but this work is family, and that is why I work this work first and protect it like a lion does his kill.
When I hear applause, and see my fellow players wipe a tear and smile, I know my work, our works, have worked to make a greater work, united … many works as one work, the majesty of works as
A garden worth the effort.