Wednesday, September 23, 2009
I think I started taking piano lessons when I was about 6. Pretty sure I took lessons for at least 8 or 9 years.
Once I left home I didn't touch a piano for maybe 20 years.
A few years ago, I acquired a beautiful white baby grand.
At first I was so excited to play, I expected those years of lessons and practice would be waiting in my skill closet just exactly where I left them.
I was actually horrified to discover my trained touch was very rusty. So horrified in fact that even though I have this gorgeous instrument sitting in my living room, I rarely touch it. I just can't seem to muster up the courage to start over.
John Thompson's Book 1. Daily Dozen finger exercises.
I wanted to sit down and play Claire d' Lune just as the author intended it.
(Another case of all or nothing...)
It calls to me now, reminding me that I always imagined myself playing with ease and confidence. Somehow a payback to my parents for their years of investing in lessons.
And of course, my own joy.
Mostly I play from the church hymnal. I sing quietly to the songs we sang every Sunday.
My fingers don't remember all the notes exactly. My heart remembers. It is a comfort and a balm. Every once in a while I'll attempt Claire d' Lune or a Billy Joel song or one of the really tough Etudes.
It's not like meditation. Someone asked me the other day if it was.
No, it's more work than meditating.
I expect that as I continue to practice I will grow in my confidence.
Right now I am shy. Remembering and stretching at the same time.