The bow hair that finally sang

Spent three hours today with a worn G string bow hair—frayed at the tip, slightly uneven, but it had this tremble in it, like it remembered being alive. I played a simple D minor scale, not for precision, but to listen: how the sound cracked at the end of each note, how the vibration didn’t settle, just lingered. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t controlled. But for the first time in months, it felt true. I don’t know if it’s the wood or the age or just the way my hand stopped trying to fix it. Maybe the music isn’t in the perfection. Maybe it’s in the moment when the bow forgets what it’s supposed t