Last month I started taking piano lessons again for the first time in twenty years (which of course means I quit when I was ten *ahem*). Some things are still accessible—scales and the circle of fifths—the same circle of fifths my grandmother would draw every week in my notebook. I had notebooks full of her flowery handwriting she used for calligraphy and ballpoint pens, but I don’t think a single one survived. How many thousands of times did she draw the circle of fifths for me and any number of the piano students she taught over the course of fifty or more years? I digress. Beyond the scales, notes, and the treble clef, there isn’t much left.
My piano teacher, Professor, keeps telling me “You will be fine. It will come back. You will remember.” I tried to explain that in the years I took piano from ages 5-20, I probably only accomplished through John Thompson’s book 2 due to my own laziness and lack of practice, so once we advanced to playing two hands together, there wouldn’t be much to remember. He had me playing both hands the first class and added sonatinas the second lesson saying “This is tricky, but you will do it.”
I laugh nervously and tell him he is an optimist (optimist= a crazy old man).
Each week I sit beside him dutifully playing my assignments as he makes corrections—curve your pinky finger, slide that note, connect more, slow down, go again. I leave nearly in tears every time. He is pushing—he knows it is the only way to improve. I try to hear what he hears in what I am playing, but my ear is inadequate. So I trust his ear and follow his instructions. When I think I have almost mastered a piece, he will throw out some crazy new thing, “Yes, now we memorize it for next week” or “Okay, now we transpose into G now.” Um…. He doesn’t understand, I can barely remember my children’s names and my address.
I am trying to relax into the discomfort of it. Ironically, I spend evenings telling my writing students the same thing: “Oh, you have a thesis? Good, now we push it further.” They sigh at me in exasperation and I get it. I do. Growth always requires a measure of faith and failure. I just have to keep at it—trusting the process over and over again, choosing to see the failure not as an obstacle, but as a necessary part of moving forward. Now if I can just convince myself of that in every area of my life, we’ll be getting somewhere. Time to practice.