The Music of Life

A posting called "Noon:Chances to Choose" at http://theanchoressonline.com/aug-13-noon-chances-to-choose/


One weekend last month, my wife and I flew down to Maryland, rented a car, drove to a community college and spent an hour in a darkened recital hall while my mother-in-law did something brilliant and brave. She played the piano.

After decades of raising children, driving carpools, attending soccer games, and making endless meals in a busy kitchen, she looked around at her empty nest, and her cheerfully retired husband, and decided: “I want to do something I’ve always wanted to do. I want to learn how to play the piano.” That was two years ago. She was sixty-five years old.

Last month, she gave her first recital. She was the oldest on the concert stage that afternoon; most of her fellow musicians were a half a century or so younger than she was. But that didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was her music, and her determination.

When her time came to play, she adjusted the piano bench, unfolded her sheet music, and sat down, fingers poised over the keys. She took a breath. And she began to play. It was a comforting and familiar tune: Brahms’ Lullaby. The performance was brief. At one point, she hit a wrong note and stopped. I thought maybe she was embarrassed. But no: she clenched her little fists, and scolded herself, then unfolded her fingers and continued. She attacked the keyboard with renewed purpose, a kind of delicate vengeance. The rest of the piece was perfect. She stood and bowed. We clapped. My mother-in-law beamed. She had done it.

I never studied music when I was growing up. I know a lot of people who did, and hated it. Some hated the lessons. Others hated the practice. A few faced the concert stage with white-hot terror. The fear of failure was tremendous and, for some, overwhelming. I know my mother-in-law was anxious about her first recital— but I also know that she gave all of us that day a valuable and enduring gift.

For two minutes, with eighty-eight keys and ten fingers, she showed us how life is meant to be lived. We follow the score. We practice. We learn. We make mistakes. We struggle to get it right, and continue on, despite whatever blunders we make, or whatever wrong notes we strike. We face whatever fears we have—failure, embarrassment, awkwardness—and play on. And so it goes, note by note, in search of melody, in search of rhythm, in search of harmony. Sometimes it is beautiful. Sometimes it isn’t. But we play on. And that becomes our song.

We make music. That’s how we live, and how we love. It’s also how we learn and grow.
When my mother-in-law decided to take up the piano, she wanted to learn how to play an instrument, to master the mysterious art of making a joyful noise. She did it that Sunday, in spades. She also offered to anyone listening something truly remarkable, as her fingers played a prayer and her hands preached a sermon on a Steinway.