like a yellow banana-seat bike

"Your vibrato will come," she said, as I awkwardly wiggled my finger and wrist for the ten millionth time, trying to find some sort of rooted rhythm. With each wobble, I desperately hoped it would take seed in me. I knew how it was supposed to sound. Back and forth. Back and forth. I knew what it was supposed to look like. Yet it seemed beyond my grasp. "It will come," I kept hearing in my head. "One day, you'll pick up your violin and it will be there. I promise. Keep at it. You'll get it." As her student, I trusted everything she said.

Perhaps learning vibrato was like riding a bike...My thoughts wandered off between finger wobbles. The clomp, clomp, clomp of my Dad's work shoes behind my yellow bike stepped back into memory. I could feel his hand on the back of the seat. Steady. Reassuring. Pushing me up 900 south, his tie flapping in the wind behind him. It made me feel like we were going fast, when I heard his tie flap like that. I'd give my five year-old self the pep-talk right before a test-ride, "Today's the day! I can feel it!" And we'd be off, my feet going ninety miles a minute, trying to balance my body as it wobbled back and forth on the banana seat. I wanted that rooted rhythm of peddle-pushing and handlebar steadiness. I wanted it bad. So I kept peddling, trusting my Dad wouldn't let go until I was ready. Rooted. Full of rhythm.

I can still picture the look on his face the day I peddled off on my own towards the park. His hands were in the air, his fists pumping up-down, up-down, into the sky. He moved them to his face and cupped them on either side of his mouth, hoping his words would reach me, "Way to go, M! Way. To. Go!" I was afraid to look back, but I heard him. I think he might have been more excited than I was. I tossed my bike on my friend's lawn that afternoon, like the big kids did. No kick-stand. I just tossed it. I walked through the breezeway and peered out at my yellow bike from the window. How good it felt to know I got myself there on that bike and I could get myself back, Dad-less. That feeling was pretty dang cool.

It's that way with so many things. Vibrato. Riding a bike. Learning cursive. Trying to pronounce French "R's." Falling in love. One day it just comes. We reach the sweet spot of the note, and the vibrato finally vibrates. The training wheels come off. The cursive flows. We recite the days of the week en francais, with perfect French "R's." Someone comes along and we effortlessly fall. We know what it's supposed to look like; what it's supposed to sound like. People ride bikes, speak French and fall in love everyday. We just have to listen to our five year-old invincible selves, "Today's the day! I can feel it!" We have to keep at it. Keep peddling. And, if we do, the cheerleaders will come out in scores, fists pumping up-down, up-down into the sky. We'll hear them shout in unison, "Way to go! Way to go!" We know it will come, whatever it is. And, it will be pretty dang cool when it does.