Young violinist, Claire Bergen, lived on the edge of Boissevain. The wind came across the fields like a tired old hymn and nothing rushed, well maybe the clouds. One day, she walked to Mr. Rempel’s farmhouse, the retired schoolteacher and bandleader who people said had \u201cgone a bit strange\u201d after his wife died and he read too much Buddhist poetry. She knocked once, let herself in. He was making tea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI hate myself,\u201d she said. \u201cI hate how I play. I hate the sound of my bow. I\u2019ve practised for years and I\u2019m still just… mediocre.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Rempel handed her a chipped mug and didn\u2019t speak. \u201cI want to stop being this violin failure. I want to stop being me.\u201d He pointed at the tea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDrink.\u201d She did. \u201cNow give me back the tea,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at him. \u201cI can\u2019t. I drank it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cExactly,\u201d he said. \u201cNo tea, no cup. No self, no shame.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She frowned. \u201cBut I\u2019m a violinist. That\u2019s who I am.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen go find one who plays,\u201d he said, and turned to watch the birds in the snow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A week later, she returned to the farmhouse. Mr. Rempel was shoveling the walk. \u201cWell?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“I left the violin in its case for three days, then opened it without a plan. I forgot what I was trying to fix.\u201c said Claire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He leaned on the shovel. \u201cThat’s good. Proud of you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From then on, when the old doubt crept in again, Claire would whisper to the windbreak, \u201cWho is playing?\u201d No one answered. Only the prairie wind, and the music.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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