It's not down on any map

The story of a stubbable day

P.S. filling this post with random life photos from the last few weeks, just for fun!

Dear Kula Diaries,

This is a story about remembering what really matters.

A few weeks ago, I found myself having one of those days. And by ‘those days’, I mean the type of day where you stub your toe within two seconds of waking up, and the rest of the day feels like you’re stubbing pretty much everything else. It’s what I like to call… a stubbable day.

Soon, the layers begin to compound, and somehow, you find yourself on a Zoom call, feeling unbelievably stressed and worked up about how far behind you are, about how much you aren’t getting done, about the impossible task of attempting to do a seemingly impossible list of tasks. A day like this sneaks up on you and leaves you with quite a feeling of disappointment in yourself and a feeling of impending doom. For anybody who has started a business or simply lived life before, this is probably a familiar feeling—one that’s not exclusive to me, but rather something shared. We hear somebody else talking about this and innately start nodding our heads. On those types of days, it seems like even the most minute thing that goes wrong becomes annoying, just another obstacle, another tiny piece of proof that I’m screwing up and things are not going my way.

Beautiful little Esa soaking in the views at Homestead 2

It was on such a day that, in the midst of my morning walk, I had a sudden impulse to check my email, which is normally not something that I do on my walk. For some reason, I decided that I needed to confirm the time that I was supposed to be playing my violin with Aaron, my husband, who plays the ukulele, at the assisted living home the following day. As I scrolled through the email, I came across the communication with the vitality director where she had asked me to perform a day earlier than originally planned. I had very clearly written back and confirmed that change with her, which meant that on this day—this already stubbable day where it felt like everything was starting to fall apart a little bit—I suddenly realized that I had forgotten about a performance I had committed to, or at least written it in my calendar on the wrong day.

I wasn’t mentally prepared for this. Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed by the number of tasks that I had to do, and now I had to quickly prepare for a performance. The sense of compressed time that I felt was physically tangible. How was I going to fit everything into this day? On top of that, I hadn’t had a day off in nearly two weeks and was feeling the stress and anxiety of not having had any chance to recuperate after a long trip to Reno for a pretty exhausting outdoor industry show.

View from my morning walk!

At ten minutes before one p.m. that day, I quickly packed up my violin and rushed everything out into the car with Aaron, where we headed off to the assisted living facility where we perform monthly. On the entire drive there, I felt that familiar sense of urgency, a burning sensation in my chest telling me that I was falling behind, that I hadn’t done enough that day, and that I was letting people down. I’ve been volunteering now at this assisted living center for over a year, and it has been one of the most life-giving experiences and parts of my month. Usually, it’s something that I anticipate greatly because I love connecting with the folks who live there and sharing music.

But this time, as we arrived in the parking lot, I was very clearly not there. And by that, I mean I was in my head, still looking over the to-do list, still criticizing myself for my lack of productivity. Then I walked into the room and was instantly met by dozens of pairs of kind eyes who had been anticipating my arrival because they just wanted to hear my music. I didn’t have to prove anything to them. I didn’t have to tell them what I had done that day to optimize my business for search engine and agentic shopping. I didn’t have to talk to them about my latest performance metrics. I just needed to be there. That was it. There was nothing being asked of me except simply to be. I felt my shoulders start to drop, and my breathing began to settle.

As I looked out into that room, into those dozens of pairs of loving eyes, I saw people who were seeing me exactly as I was. And for a moment, I was able to see myself that way, too. Suddenly, as if a magic eraser had swooped down from the heavens, the stumbles of the day were erased, and I was simply there—laughing, playing music, trying to get everybody to guess which song I was going to play next, and urging folks to sing along.

Me and Irma doing some improv together!

When I play my violin there, I always try to tell stories about silly adventures that I’ve had while playing the violin. Since we’re thick in the midst of summer, I started out by telling the story of the first time I was ever paid to play my violin. I was twelve years old and was hired by a student in my school to play at his grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party. Her favorite song was Summertime from Porgy and Bess.

At the age of twelve, I had already been playing violin for seven years. So while I looked very tiny and inexperienced, I actually was a relatively proficient violin player. We hatched the idea to surprise the grandmother. My friend, whose name was Buddy, walked out in front of the audience and said, “Grandma, happy 90th birthday. This is my gift to you.” I appeared from behind a closed door, and you could hear the entire room—a big fancy dining room area filled with people—gasp in disbelief that this twelve-year-old was going to come out and play a song.

Immediately, I lifted my violin and began playing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, which, of course, was part of our plan. Buddy wanted me to surprise the audience by being much better than I seemed to be. So, I played Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, and I could tell that the audience was being predictably very polite about how good of a violinist I was, admiring me as a cute little girl who was only mediocre at the violin, but not really taking me very seriously.

Out on a forest service road somewhere!

As soon as I was done playing, I took a bow as I received polite applause and then, much to everybody’s surprise, lifted the violin again and threw myself into a jazzy rendition of Summertime from Porgy and Bess. I still remember the look on the grandmother’s face as I played her favorite song, tears streaming down her cheeks, as her grandson stood nearby beaming because the entire surprise had been his idea. I was paid fifty dollars to play at that birthday party, which at the time was more money than I had ever earned in my entire life.

But even though I felt abundantly rich for a twelve-year-old, in some way I realized that the true gift had not been the money. It had been that moment—a moment shared with everybody in that room to celebrate the love of a grandson and his grandmother on her ninetieth birthday.

As I played for the assisted living center a few weeks ago, the (now meaningless) stress of the day vanishing into nothingness, I put myself into the music fully, just like I had when I was twelve years old. It seemed to come from a place that had no limits, a place that was not bound by rules or expectations, a place that only existed in the purest of love.

Homestead 2!

One of the last songs that I played was a song that I had never played for this particular group before. Because it was right before Father’s Day weekend, I thought it would be really nice to play one of my favorite pieces. It’s called O Mio Babbino Caro, which means “my beloved father.” It’s a very special piece by Puccini. And as I played it, I could feel the whole cosmos clicking into place, as if to say, “This is what matters. This is what matters.”

At the end of the piece, I told everybody that my favorite part was when there is a delicate musical phrase where the note shifts up to a high G. I explained to the group that listening to that moment reminded me of reaching up and touching a cloud. That when I played that note, I thought in my heart, “How can I make this the most beautiful note that has ever existed to share with all of you?”

IMPORTANT ASSIGNMENT: This is the most beautiful version of the song mentioned above that I’ve heard on the violin (seriously recommend wearing headphones and listen to it with your eyes closed… that high note will get you every time!!)

I looked into the audience and saw dozens and dozens of smiling eyes looking back at me. Then I lifted my violin once more. Aaron flipped the page of the music, and we began to play Leonard Cohen’s, Hallelujah. As we did, the whole room started to sing. Every single person in the room burst into song, singing word by word. And together, those words and those notes reached a place that simply cannot be described. It’s only a place that can be felt — a moment when I can understand what Melville meant when he wrote, “It is not down on any map; true places never are.”

Aaron and I filmed this a few years ago, and I thought it would bring a bit of magic into your day today:

In moments like this, I am reminded that I’m not alone. That there is nothing I need to fear… no thing I need to do. I am scooped up by the hands of love. I’m still remembering. I’m still learning. I forget all the time, but the universe comes back and comes back and comes back and reminds me:

This, Anastasia, is what matters. This is everything.

---

Friends — thank YOU SO MUCH for being here and for reading my stories each week! I hope that you all have a restful, wonderful week and that you are able to find many moments throughout to connect with what really matters.