Yesterday's piano lesson certainly would have lifted the blahs if my spirits had needed the help (fortunately they didn't). It would take serious will power and strength to maintain a downward spiral in the face of Mendelssohn's music - even with me playing it. This is the third year of this return to the piano, and I am hoping to break the witch's spell this time around.
You see, all told (isn't that a great phrase?) I've been playing for nine years. It's just that I've really only played three times three years. Does that make sense to you? My introduction to the piano began when I was five (my brother Daniel was eight) with my mother as my teacher. For several reasons, that didn't work too well. I'm sorry she's no longer around to tell her side of the story which I'm sure would have been worth listening to. We'd all probably be rolling on the floor with laughter to hear what my brother and I were like as her students.
I do remember this much. Mother would reward us for a good lesson by putting stickers on the appropriate side of the piano book (Dan had a side and I had the other). Daniel was better at practicing; even though we each had to practice the same amount of time, he made good use of his time. I'm sure I squirmed around, looked out the window, hummed a bit, and daydreamed a lot. Anyway, I began to notice that Dan had many more stickers than I did, and they were pretty snowflake-shaped stickers in many different colors. I wanted them. So I peeled them off Dan's side of the book and stuck them on mine. They looked very pretty even if a bit bedraggled.
It wasn't long before my mother noticed and said something about not realizing that I had earned so many stickers. Dan probably let out a bellow of outrage when he saw what I'd done. I'm sure his explanation to our mother was quite pithy and not flattering of my character, piano playing, or general worth. Ah well. I think the sticker-awarding ended shortly thereafter. At the end of three years of tolerating the two of us at the piano, mother gave in and let us quit.
Then, as an adult I started lessons again. I enjoyed it, but I still didn't practice as I should have. There was too much going on in my life at that time. Rebecca was young, David traveled a lot, and I was starting my teaching career. Three years later, I quit (and so did Rebecca). However, I did keep the piano.
Now I love my lessons and enjoy practicing. I try to play for an hour a day, but sometimes to get that hour in, it's in 20 minute or half-hour intervals (there are still things to do and interruptions). Even so, I can feel the difference this time around. I hope I can maintain it - it would be so very nice to get farther along. The music I play is music I love (mostly Baroque and Classical eras). But I do hope to be able to play some Schubert some time as well as more difficult Mozart and Bach than I can handle right now.
Music can banish the blahs and much more. I consider myself lucky to have the piano back in my life.
I may have told you we bought an electronic keyboard for Dylan and Eric for Christmas. The box was enormous and beautifully wrapped with a shiny red bow. Placed under the tree in East Hampton, both Eric and Dylan were intrigued (to put it mildly). When the box was opened, Eric said, "A piano, I don't want a piano." Dylan being a little older did not voice his disappointment. Later in the afternoon when we set up the piano, Eric was the one who began to ham it up on the keyboard. Dina said she planned piano lessons for the boys and probably herself as well. When we painted the family room, I wrote Dina and Tim and offered to give them my piano--having vowed to give it away if I didn't play this Christmas. They replied that they didn't have room for it right now. So the piano still sits in the family room reminding me of the years of my lost ability at the keyboard from lack of practice. I still believe that I'll not take it up again, but every once in a while ... oh why even go there.
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