Wanting to capture this moment in the basement of James and Stearns, I wrote a short (okay, it turned out a bit longer than expected) blurb on my laptop as it sits on the music rack of a piano.
I started playing piano when I was in first grade. I still remember my piano teacher’s voice telling me to round my fingers and level my wrist level with my arm. Starting with one line music, purely composed of black notes, I learned the foundations of classical music and music theory. Every year, for twelve years, my piano teacher and I worked toward a sonata contest, recitals, duet contests, and a regional examination. For the most part, I hated practicing. There were many nights of crying over the piano because I had to practice before going to sleep. Some nights, I would even fall asleep while playing That is not to say that there were also days when I loved practicing. Those usually followed the trecherous, initial practices. Once the muscles in my fingers began to anticipate the next note and the music began formalizing in my head, I loved the feeling of pulling out music out of my memory anytime I wanted to.
Piano began branching out of the seed of weekly lessons. Children entered my life as piano students to whom I shared my piano teacher’s tips. Although my experience was nothing compared to her many years in the field, watching them play their first notes and then their first musical pieces was spectacular nonetheless. I understood her want to be gentle but firm with me as I did the same. The local convalescent home became my second practice room as I began playing piano there every week. Even though I had to introduce myself to the same senior residents every time, I enjoyed exchanging stories with them and, even more so, playing music for them. Music had created a huge community for me, but I had taken it for granted. By the time I graduated high school, the hours I spent practicing piano diminished substantially. (l think back at this with so much regret…)
Like many other college first-years, I was ready to try new things. During orientation, I caught wind of chorus auditions and immediately jumped at the opportunity, even though I had no experience. Despite getting sick and trying to sing scales with a hoarse throat, I miraculously got into the choral group. It was much easier to practice singing than it was to practice the piano. I could do it anywhere. As long as I was alone, I would softly break into choral pieces. It wasn’t until the second semester that I missed the piano. While I enjoy singing and love my choir siblings, I can’t help but think about piano whenever we are asked simple music theory questions. I went to the practice rooms and played a song or two, realized that I had forgotten most of it, and left. Fast forward two more semesters and here I am, sitting on the piano bench. Failing to play music that I wanted to hear, I feel embarassed about my experience with piano. I can’t blame anything or anyone but myself. Instead of playing music, I spent the last hour playing stumbling over scales. My fingers don’t feel like mine and my head stings a bit as it tries to untangle now-tricky patterns. But, trying to recapture old memories of gliding across the keys motivates me to find comfort in the practice rooms and spend more hours in solitude with an old friend.