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singer-songwriter

Sunday afternoon my grandmother invited me along to a recital of young students at a somewhat new Conservatory of Music that has formed in our area. My grandmother is an enthusiastic supporter and family friends with the founder of the school.

As I sat in the auditorium and listened to the students play and sing, it made me think of two things:

1. You never know what’s inside someone.
I watched some of the kids in the foyer before we went into the concert–wobbling in their high heels, holding hands and giggling, nervously playing with neck ties and shying away from the girls in the corner. And then, minutes later, that same student would step out on the stage–focused, confident and full of music. You’d never think it–this kid, who I might normally blow off as shallow, giddy, immature, shy–has something inside them. There’s more to them than what you see on the outside. You never know what gifts and talents lurk quietly behind a child’s sometimes awkward exterior.

2. I had a great music teacher growing up.
When I was young, I went with my sister to Ardinger’s music shop where she purchased her first instrument, a flute, in order to begin taking music lessons as part of the school’s fourth grade curriculum. The man who owned the shop must have sensed my eagerness and jealousy. He handed me a small, black plastic recorder and said, "You practice on this. Come back in four years and I’ll give you private lessons." I went back four years later to purchase my own first instrument and he remembered who I was.  So began eight years of private lessons from this seventy-four year old man who was such a strong presence in my life. He was tough as nails, gentle as a kitten. He’d make me want to cry and then overflow with praise. He never charged me a penny and he is someone who shaped and changed my life.

I remember how he used to always hum. Oftentimes when I’d show up for my lesson I didn’t know where he was in his house/music shop. But I’d follow the humming and sometimes join in while I tracked him down. "You’re FLAT!" he’d growl . I remember he’d sneak into my performances when I had a solo, usually not wanting to be seen. He’d linger in the background, and afterwards convince my mother and I to go out for pie and coffee in celebration, even if it was a school night. I remember sitting on his porch drinking 7up with a lime after every lesson while he had a martini. One every day. We’d turn on Benny Goodman or Artie Shaw and he’d have me play along with the CD or the record player so that I would start to sound just like them. He had shelf after shelf of records–numbered and alphabetized. I remember the day he told me I was better than him. I remember the day when he cried telling me how important I was in his life, how proud he was of me.

He taught me not just to play notes, but to sing.

It’s the piece of advice I give to every young musician I come across. When I listened to some of these students today I thought, "Has anyone every told you to sing the music? Don’t just play it."  And I remember when he died–after my senior year of high school, during summer vacation. I remember going to his funeral and being so disappointed. Here was a man who had brought music into so many lives and not a single instrument was played or note struck at his funeral. His funeral was common. It was normal. He was not. If I’d had my instrument and I had known, I would have gotten it out and played a tune in his honor.

I remember thinking that it was probably for the best that he died before I went to college. It might have broken his heart that I was going off to play volleyball and not become "the next Artie Shaw." But then again, if he could see me now, he’d see that the music is still there inside me. That I’m still singing. And I think, my children are singing. I think he’d be proud.

And then I think he’d say, "Get your kids some music lessons! What are you waiting for?" Okay, well maybe that’s not what he’d say, but it’s what I was saying to myself as I got in the car to drive home Sunday afternoon.

And do yourself a favor, go read Confessions Of A Pioneer Woman’s post about soccer/children’s choir. It’s good.

singer-songwriter

 

Sunday afternoon my grandmother invited me along to a recital of young students at a somewhat new Conservatory of Music that has formed in our area. My grandmother is an enthusiastic supporter and family friends with the founder of the school. She is also a supporter of a music foundation like the ones at https://www.savethemusic.org/music-education-resources/.

As I sat in the auditorium, listening to the students sing while reading a turntable guide, it made me think of two things:

1. You never know what’s inside someone.
I watched some of the kids in the foyer before we went into the concert–wobbling in their high heels, holding hands and giggling, nervously playing with neck ties and shying away from the girls in the corner. And then, minutes later, that same student would step out on the stage–focused, confident and full of music. You’d never think it–this kid, who I might normally blow off as shallow, giddy, immature, shy–has something inside them. There’s more to them than what you see on the outside. You never know what gifts and talents lurk quietly behind a child’s sometimes awkward exterior.

2. I had a great music teacher growing up.
When I was young, I went with my sister to Ardinger’s music shop where she purchased her first instrument, a flute, in order to begin taking music lessons as part of the school’s fourth grade curriculum. The man who owned the shop must have sensed my eagerness and jealousy. He handed me a small, black plastic recorder and said, “You practice on this. Come back in four years and I’ll give you private lessons.” I went back four years later to purchase my own first instrument and he remembered who I was.  So began eight years of private violin lessons from this seventy-four year old man who was such a strong presence in my life. He was tough as nails, gentle as a kitten. He’d make me want to cry and then overflow with praise. He never charged me a penny and he is someone who shaped and changed my life. Visit headphonage.com for the review of the best guitar amp headsets.

I remember how he used to always hum. Oftentimes when I’d show up for my lesson I didn’t know where he was in his house/music shop. But I’d follow the humming and sometimes join in while I tracked him down. “You’re FLAT!” he’d growl . I remember he’d sneak into my performances when I had a solo, usually not wanting to be seen. He’d linger in the background, and afterwards convince my mother and I to go out for pie and coffee in celebration, even if it was a school night. I remember sitting on his porch drinking 7up with a lime after every lesson while he had a martini. One every day. We’d turn on Benny Goodman or Artie Shaw and he’d have me play along with the CD or the record player so that I would start to sound just like them. He had shelf after shelf of records–numbered and alphabetized. I remember the day he told me I was better than him. I remember the day when he cried telling me how important I was in his life, how proud he was of me.

He taught me not just to play notes, but to sing.

It’s the piece of advice I give to every young musician I come across. When I listened to some of these students today I thought, “Has anyone every told you to sing the music? Don’t just play it.”  And I remember when he died–after my senior year of high school, during summer vacation. I remember going to his funeral and being so disappointed. Here was a man who had brought music into so many lives and not a single instrument was played or note struck at his funeral. His funeral was common. It was normal. He was not. If I’d had my instrument and I had known, I would have gotten it out and played a tune in his honor.

I remember thinking that it was probably for the best that he died before I went to college. It might have broken his heart that I was going off to play volleyball and not become “the next Artie Shaw.” But then again, if he could see me now, he’d see that the music is still there inside me. That I’m still singing. And I think, my children are singing. I think he’d be proud.

And then I think he’d say, “Get your kids some music lessons! What are you waiting for?” Okay, well maybe that’s not what he’d say, but it’s what I was saying to myself as I got in the car to drive home Sunday afternoon.

And do yourself a favor, go read Confessions Of A Pioneer Woman’s post about soccer/children’s choir. It’s good.

Uncategorized

music is magic

singer-songwriter

Sunday afternoon my grandmother invited me along to a recital of young students at a somewhat new Conservatory of Music that has formed in our area. My grandmother is an enthusiastic supporter and family friends with the founder of the school. She is also a supporter of a music foundation like the ones at https://www.savethemusic.org/music-education-resources/.

As I sat in the auditorium, listening to the students sing it made me think of two things:

1. You never know what’s inside someone.
I watched some of the kids in the foyer before we went into the concert–wobbling in their high heels, holding hands and giggling, nervously playing with neck ties and shying away from the girls in the corner. And then, minutes later, that same student would step out on the stage–focused, confident and full of music. You’d never think it–this kid, who I might normally blow off as shallow, giddy, immature, shy–has something inside them. There’s more to them than what you see on the outside. You never know what gifts and talents lurk quietly behind a child’s sometimes awkward exterior.

2. I had a great music teacher growing up.
When I was young, I went with my sister to Ardinger’s music shop where she purchased her first instrument, a flute, in order to begin taking music lessons as part of the school’s fourth grade curriculum. The man who owned the shop must have sensed my eagerness and jealousy. He handed me a small, black plastic recorder and said, “You practice on this. Come back in four years and I’ll give you private lessons.” I went back four years later to purchase my own first instrument and he remembered who I was.  So began eight years of private clarinet lessons from this seventy-four year old man who was such a strong presence in my life. He was tough as nails, gentle as a kitten. He’d make me want to cry and then overflow with praise. He never charged me a penny and he is someone who shaped and changed my life.

I remember how he used to always hum. Oftentimes when I’d show up for my lesson I didn’t know where he was in his house/music shop. But I’d follow the humming and sometimes join in while I tracked him down. “You’re FLAT!” he’d growl . I remember he’d sneak into my performances when I had a solo, usually not wanting to be seen. He’d linger in the background, and afterwards convince my mother and I to go out for pie and coffee in celebration, even if it was a school night. I remember sitting on his porch drinking 7up with a lime after every lesson while he had a martini. One every day. We’d turn on Benny Goodman or Artie Shaw and he’d have me play along with the CD or the record player so that I would start to sound just like them. He had shelf after shelf of records–numbered and alphabetized. I remember the day he told me I was better than him. I remember the day when he cried telling me how important I was in his life, how proud he was of me.

He taught me not just to play notes, but to sing.

It’s the piece of advice I give to every young musician I come across. When I listened to some of these students today I thought, “Has anyone every told you to sing the music? Don’t just play it.”  And I remember when he died–after my senior year of high school, during summer vacation. I remember going to his funeral and being so disappointed. Here was a man who had brought music into so many lives and not a single instrument was played or note struck at his funeral. His funeral was common. It was normal. He was not. If I’d had my instrument and I had known, I would have gotten it out and played a tune in his honor.

I remember thinking that it was probably for the best that he died before I went to college. It might have broken his heart that I was going off to play volleyball and not become “the next Artie Shaw.” But then again, if he could see me now, he’d see that the music is still there inside me. That I’m still singing. And I think, my children are singing. I think he’d be proud.

And then I think he’d say, “Get your kids some music lessons! What are you waiting for?” Okay, well maybe that’s not what he’d say, but it’s what I was saying to myself as I got in the car to drive home Sunday afternoon.

LIVING WELL

So here’s that thing I’ve been working on for months

It’s hard to believe, but this little blog has been ticking along for more than 13 years, I’ve given you all quite a glimpse into my life and my heart–new babies, the ups and downs of motherhood, heartache and loss, moves, life on the farm, raising sheep and chickens, and even recipes straight from my little farmhouse kitchen. 

But the one part of my story that I don’t always talk about, is what I’ve been doing for more than half of those years. Maybe because it seemed so opposite from the kinds of things I share here. It felt strange to share that I had this other very “un-farmy” life that was so different from what I figured everyone expected from me. For years, I have been working as a social media coordinator for one of the biggest parenting sites on the internet, poring over the ins and outs of facebook and pinterest, twitter and instagram–algorithm changes and newsfeed updates, best practices and new features. 

I take off my boots from morning chores and tuck into my computer to schedule and study and work with clients and colleagues spread around the country. I’ve tuned in to conference calls while standing in a barn stall with a vet pulling a tooth from a horse’s mouth, and missed meetings because I was shearing sheep. 

But over the past few years, I’ve felt this pull on my heart to use this knowledge and skill set to help and serve others. Though the journey has taken me down several winding paths, what has emerged from all of this thought and work and reflection and months and months of work, is The Farmhouse Creative

At my heart, I’ve always considered myself a storyteller–from the things that I write to the photos I take, to the things I share online. And that is my heart behind The Farmhouse Creative–helping small business owners and farmers, and artists and creative entrepreneurs, tell their story online in meaningful ways, through social media. I like to think of myself as a social media coach–working alongside my clients to teach and empower them to create a simple, smart and unique social media plan. And helping them connect with their community online. 

The funny thing is, I’ve had a hard time giving myself permission to admit that, actually, I know A LOT about this stuff. And it turns out, I have a lot of knowledge that I can pass along to others. And most importantly, I love doing it. I love helping and serving others and seeing them grow, thrive and succeed. It gives me great joy. 

So what does that mean for this space? Well, as you might have noticed, I’ve had to pull way back on the time I’ve put in here. Any time in my already full schedule, needed to be directed to The Farmhouse Creative as I built and designed the site, and experienced all the twists and turns of growing my own business.  Since this upgrade, I’ve also upgraded my internet connection at home to cater to my clients. I’m very grateful to you so I want to give you the best experience. You can learn More about my internet package here since I know a lot of you are also entrepreneurs.

But I have a plan for this space that I’m really excited about. I’ll still be here, now and then, but I’ve felt the tug to create a more personal communication with all of you. So for now, I’m starting a monthly newsletter called Sunday Letters. I find Sunday to be one of my favorite days to reflect and write and I’d love to pop into your inbox once a month. For now, the newsletter a condensed version of the things you read here–updates and photographs from the farm, a recipe or reflection, or good finds I’m loving. 

But I have two favors to ask of you. Would you click over to this survey and answer just TWO questions that will help me as I craft and create this newsletter? And the second question will let me know if you’re interested in one other idea I have. I would so appreciate your feedback. 

Favor number two? Sign up for Sunday Letters below. I’d love meet with you there, just one simple Sunday a month. 



And finally, my friends. Happy New Year and thank you. As always, my heart is so full and grateful for this space and the friendships and community that have grown from such a simple thing. xo. Molly

Want to connect with me and The Farmhouse Creative online? 

Follow my personal Instagram account here.

Follow The Farmhouse Creative on Instagram.

Follow The Farmhouse Creative on Facebook.

IN MY KITCHEN / LIVING WELL / MOTHERHOOD / RAISING SHEEP

A quick September list you don’t want to miss

We are entering my favorite time of the year. Pretty soon I’ll break out the pumpkin bread recipe and then it will be officially official

Here’s a little list to get things started:

**I finally fixed the issue on my “In My Kitchen” page and my favorite recipes are finally linked up. Yes, I may have cringed a bit at the photography but the recipes are my old faithfuls. Fixing the page inspired me to revisit a few of them these past few weeks. Healthy chocolates, I had forgotten about you! 

**If you don’t follow me on Instagram or if Instagram isn’t showing you my posts (most likely), click over to check out an important little update on Birdy. I’ll probably be talking about it more on here, as I learn more. I’m so grateful for the support from so many of you–your comments and messages have been so encouraging. And many people have been coming to me with their own stories and questions–so I’m doing my best to get back to each of you. 

young living premium starter kit help

**This summer I finally got around to ordering an essential oils from various CBD brands  starter kit. I also like to smoke CBD flower, it allows for the natural, synergistic effects of all of the cannabinoids and terpenes in my body. I actually had one years ago and never did anything with it. But after some health stuff this summer I really felt the tug at my heart to be more proactive about my family’s health. And I’m totally hooked. I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on and I can’t tell you how many things oils have been helping with–mentally, emotionally, physically and hormonally. It feels really good to have a new approach to our wellness as a family. I created a page for essential oils and will update it as I go.  But what I’d really love is to foster a community for learning and support. If there are enough people interested in a starter kit and in being part of that, I will put something together, most likely on Facebook. I would love to have that support and learn together. Feel free to shoot me an email or leave a comment. 

**This month, Emily, Tara and I have quietly brought habit back, but on Instagram. We’ve decided to dip our toes in the water and see how it felt to move the community onto Instagram. We’re using the hashtag #habitblog. I would love if you’d join us. 

**A few months ago I started leading a Rising Tide Society, TuesdaysTogether group for my area. I can’t tell you how amazing it is to connect with other creative business owners, writers, photographers. It is just what my heart needed. We meet once a month and last month spent time talking about creative risk-taking. I’ll be sharing more exciting news on that before the end of the month.

**And of course, I can’t sign off without a sheep update. We are in the midst of downsizing our flock a bit to prepare for winter and to give our fields a break. They were grazed hard which meant lots of feed and hay expenses and dealing with parasites. So we’re trying to scale back for the winter and soon we’ll be down to a flock of 3. The lambs have all found wonderful homes and this week Tillie and Harriet will make their way just up the road to a lovely little farm owned by some friends from church. It took a little convincing to encourage Birdy that Tillie would be happiest and healthiest somewhere else. The bribe cost me a new “wife” for Otis. Gosh, that kid. 

More soon friends. xo.