At the first sound of the violin my heart changes. When the bow goes up and down the strings and produces this soft and intense and deep sound my heart becomes softer. It changes its shape and its consistency. I can feel more air inside of my body, as if I suddenly allow it to enter; and nothing stops the softness of the voice inside of me.

When I play violin I become a different person. And I love myself. I no longer fight, I no longer prove anything, I no longer say a word. Violin sound emerges like your voice, from within.

And I stay in front of the dark window and become myself. I have never felt so much as a woman as I do now; now when I look at my fingers pressing the strings and when my cheek rests on the soft wood, and when I still have to stay upright and just listen.

There is a plant that is slowly dying in the corner of my apartment. I never cared much for plants. My daughter buys them and they slowly die, because I am too busy to remember to water them. My grandma used to say that plants only live in the houses where there is love and music. As I play violin I see the plant on the top of the bookshelf. And I realize that I want to play for this plant and to give it space in my life, in my house. Something I have never done before. I probably treat people in the same way.

What is love worth if I do not give people space? What is love at all if it is not space? Love is probably space where you care. It is caring for somebody and giving them space in your life, in your thoughts, in your way of doing things, in your house. It is just giving them space where they are safe.

There is a street in Potrero Hill with couple of small restaurants. I remember once I was there when it started to rain. And now, still pressing the violin strings with my left hand, all I want is to stay on that street and cry. And not be ashamed of it.

Alone. The more people there are around me the lonelier it feels. The more I go out the more I want to just close my eyes and stay still. The more I laugh the more I want to cry. And I cry. Sometimes. Often. The more I feel the love of friends the stronger is the pain of being alone. Deep inside there is a voice that has been silenced. Absolutely no one around.

I have been extremely lucky all my life. The luckier I feel with the mundane things the greater is the feeling of emptiness. I am grateful. I take nothing for granted. I am grateful every time we eat. Because we have food on the table. I am grateful every time I pay at the supermarket. I am grateful we have everything we need. I am grateful to have so many friends. To have so many people that love me. I am grateful for being healthy. I am grateful for having strong and healthy kids. I am grateful for every act of kindness towards me and my family.

Surrounded by all this love. And I feel alone. The pain of being alone is like heartburn. It is this little flame that burns inside. Staying in the wind in a field of golden wheat. Like a little child. From my childhood in Russia. And the wind blows my hair over my face. And it is starting to rain. My clothes get wet. And I am alone. I want to run, but I do not move. I want to scream and ask for help, but I am silent. And the rain feels like tears on my face. And I am crying.

But the world is big. The world is beautiful. Flowers are simple to gather.