My Piano

I write this while waiting for the piano movers to pick up my old piano at my parents' house. I always thought that one day I would move it to my own house, but I never did anything to make it happen until last weekend. When I was back in the house I grew up in, I removed the random throw pillow and a basket holding pens and coins sitting on the cover of the piano, pulled out the old wooden bench, and sat down. I folded back the cover to reveal aged off-white piano keys. I played some chords and the beginnings of songs that were familiar to my fingers. The sounds bounced off the walls and hugged me with their vibrations in a familiar, yet forgotten way. That's when I knew, it was time.

Once I returned home, I called a few movers for quotes, and Lothoff, one of the movers, said, "Wow, we actually have a trip to Seattle next week, and normally we go every 2-3 months without one." Because they already had a route going to Seattle, my piano would hitch a ride for half the original cost of the move (which is probably still more than what the piano is worth). I felt like it was a sign that this was meant to be. So, last-minute trip back down to Oregon to be present for the pick-up.

Maybe I needed to wait a whole 14 years since I had a house of my own to move this piano. Up until now, I was not ready for a piece of me growing up to move in with the grown-up me. I did not have the mental space, the time, the discipline, or simply didn't allow myself to do something as luxurious as sitting down for an hour to tap out music on a keyboard.

But I do now. I want to sit down and play music even though I struggle with reading the black dots that run up and down the page. (Why are there so many flats? I have always preferred sharps over flats.) When I think of the time that has passed and what I have lost in proficiency of playing music, I grieve. I think of Mrs. Spencer's years of patient teaching frozen in me. I am looking forward to rediscovering and at the same time relearning how to be the free-spirited child again. Reclaiming the right to do something that would have been considered unproductive in my last decade. But now I understand that activities such as sitting down to play piano or learning watercolor or reading or walking the dogs or making cookies are productive as they enrich the soul and spirit.

For so long, my soul and spirit had been muted in the name of doing what I was supposed to do as an educated young professional. Instead of sitting down to create art or music or just being still, I traded it unknowingly for building a business, a skill set, reputation, and a success defined for the outwardly. I do not regret it, at least not all of it. I do wish I was taught to have that balance. That it is equally necessary to slow down and play. Because without play, I could not sustain.

Typical to my nature, now that I am almost done with the first step of getting the piano out of my parents' house and on its way to my own house, I start doubting if this was the right move. I start questioning myself, "Am I really going to sit and play? Is this a complete waste of time, money, and energy? Am I just adding to the clutter? Or is this going to be that restorative journey, bridging me to my past where I learned discipline as well as joy, where I played creatively while being celebrated?" As with anything I do now that is unlike what I would have done a few years ago, I find that it is aligning with who I want to be once more.

So it is finally time to bring home this beautifully ugly, beat-up beast. I explained my longing to my husband, and he described it as, "it's because it's alive." I tearfully agreed with him, for he understood me at a level that I couldn't for so long. That each key and its infinite combinations of melodies and harmonies are different notes of love and hope that a little girl had; and the pure longing to play a piece well, just because I could and deserved to, not because I was going to be awarded anything for it.

I've cleared off the pictures, and the little figurines, and whatever else my parents used the piano to act like a shelf for. It sits alone without its dressing, waiting for its ride back to me, where she belongs.