I recently read an old magazine column written by the late singer/songwriter Rich Mullins that used a fiddle as a metaphor for a man. He made the point that a fiddle is nothing more than an assemblage of materials with no power of its own to do anything but collect dust. He described the fact that a fiddle is hallow and the idea that, if a fiddle did have feelings, it would feel empty sitting in its case with nothing but stale air residing inside its wood enclosure.
On the other hand, when it is played by a skilled fiddler, a fiddle becomes a magical instrument that, on its own and without any other accompaniment, can be a source of music loud enough, melodic enough, and rhythmic enough to bring people to their feet and cause them to dance!
It is gray Sunday afternoons like this that my hope catches its breath with the thought that, though, I am like an empty, nondescript farmhouse, I still may someday be used by the Master Fiddler if He so desires.
Suggested Reading: The World As I Remember It: Through the Eyes of a Ragamuffin by Rich Mullins