Tray

Day 240: Tray

Cultivate contentment. I have this taped on my desk, next to my monitor at work. I find this precept very difficult to follow. It has something to do with looking on the bright side, and counting our blessings, and remembering that the grass is always greener. It's about vigilantly disregarding those who are better off than I am, and being alert to the ways in which my life is good.

Easier said than done. For most aspects of my life, I am in a constant state of ambivalence. I long for the country, but love my nearby neighbors and being able to walk into town. I want a low-stress job, but one with complexity, intensity and meaning. My dog is affectionate, adorable, and doesn't shed, but he's high strung and not very obedient. I love the comfort of my Trek cross-over bike, but miss the quickness and light weight of my old Miyata. Our hardwood floors are beautiful, but easily damaged and cold beneath my feet.

This tray is one of several not-quite-perfect trays. It's a bit too big to fit through the door to the attic. It's not charming. I've got another smaller wooden tray with legs that's the right size, but damaged on the top. And yet another metal tray, probably from the 50s, that would be perfect, with its retro style (complete with hand-painted fruit bowl), its perfect size and its slightly rounded edges. Except that it's rusty.

Occasionally, though, I am entirely content. I love my mandolin. Never for one moment do I fantasize about getting a new and different mandolin. I never secretly hope that my mandolin will be damaged so I cam replace it. I never look with envy upon other people's mandolins. I never wish that it is a different color, or a different shape, or larger, or smaller, or louder, or softer, or clearer, or brighter. I never think to myself, this will be the last mandolin I ever own: is it really good enough? My mandolin is so much more than any beginning player could ever want. I think of it always with gratitude.

It was difficult to play in the beginning. I had a very early lesson with local musician Jason Dennie; he suggested that another instrument might be easier to use. And it was hard to play, its high action requiring significant finger strength and torque. I advertised it for sale at the Mandolin Cafe, and went to test out other, easier mandolins at Elderly in Lansing. I guess I played thirty instruments, and not one of them felt right. The only ones that came close were tens of thousands of dollars. So began an odyssey that began with the maker, Will Kimble, and ended when Elderly reset the neck, miraculously turning the instrument's lovely resonance into something lovely, resonant and infinitely playable.

We moved from house to house many times when I was a child: seven residences in seventeen years. Yet shortly after I left home, my parents moved into the house they still live in, almost 35 years later. After 20 years of marriage, they built their dream house, and it is still perfect.

It's hard to know whether my state of ambivalence is emblematic of the times, or a personal neurosis, or an objective statement about the imperfection of these objects in my life. I'm inclined to believe it's 80% me and 20% circumstances. I'm an American after all, constantly striving for bigger and better. But perhaps my mandolin tells a different story. Perhaps I could find the perfect neighborhood, the perfect job, the perfect dog, the perfect bicycle, the perfect house. Perhaps then I wouldn't be scanning Zillow and shopping for bikes and looking at the cute pups on petfinder.com.

Or perhaps it's all about meditation and mind control.