I'LL DO RE MI (DO RIGHT BY YOU)
The side of her right thumb sits on middle C as she rotates her wrist to stretch four slender fingers over ten identical keys, her pinky tip lightly tapping E. Even though she’s no Tchaikovsky or Bach, she uses its fifty-two white and thirty-six black pieces to create infinite combinations of miraculous harmony and dissonance, despite being able to only touch ten at once. It sings dramatically when she holds down its damper pedal, intertwining and extending its parts into a mixture sans boundaries. Deep and powerful on its right side, high and light on its left, its voice speaks at just the lightest touch. Even though she begrudgingly sits upon its seat to keep it alive, it remains joyous and kindhearted, willingly absorbing every emotion she offers: her desires are its desires, her anguish is its anguish, her excitement is its excitement. It didn’t ever want to let her go, she was all it knew; but it had to because she wanted to leave and it couldn’t go with her. She didn’t believe in its heart or compassion until years later when she had already fallen for many others, leaving little time or attention for it as the years went on.
As her head elevated and her legs lengthened, her heart was pushed further and further away from it. Despite her growing disinterest towards and exasperation with it, it remained loyal to her. It was placed in the northwest corner of the living room underneath Mother’s handmade texturized painting of a lake. For fifteen years and counting, gravity pulled it deeper and deeper into the mauve carpet underneath, forcing its surroundings to accept it.
Its presence is now so engraved it disappears into the natural backdrop of the room. It never resists. It sits quietly, speaking only when spoken to, for giving is all it knows. Its body is never fully exposed, always protected by a thick black covering that’s sprinkled with more dust each time she returns. Mother created a fitted jacket, suede on the outside and fake-silk on the inside, that is never removed, only ever peeled back far enough to reveal the beautiful smudge-free shiny keys beneath and covered again once it was used and no longer desired.
Only she controlled its presence in the human world, touching it only when she needed a comforting voice or to prove something to herself. It didn’t know anything beyond the walls of the living room and her face, so it lived through her. Inanimate objects wither and age; wood weathers, metal rusts, and paper yellows. But this beautiful piano refused to, despite almost 2 decades of use and eventual neglect. As reflective and flawless as it was on the day it was bought in spring of 1998, it continues to shine as if unaware of its own beauty. Every time she lifts the fallboard, she wonders how the gold “YAMAHA” below the music desk still appears freshly painted. Its outer beauty is a perfect reflection of its inner beauty, but she only ever appreciates the former, dismissing the latter as insignificant. It selflessly teaches her patience, and forgiveness, qualities she didn’t understand. Her piano showed her a friendship and an escape that she didn’t believe existed.
Friend
Mother grew up as a Chinese child, not an American child. She didn’t watch Disney movies or have play dates. As the eldest sibling, from a very young age she had to focus on helping earn money, cook, clean, knit clothing, and look after her siblings. She didn’t have the opportunity to finish school or do much for herself. When she immigrated to New York, she was moved by the American children surrounded by leisure and happiness, something she didn’t have the privilege to experience as a young girl. In hopes of providing me with the opportunities that had escaped her, such as getting an education and developing creative talents, she focused all her time, energy, and money on immersing me in activities she could only have dreamed of doing in China. She wanted my hands to be rich with knowledge and art, not manual labor like hers. I took English, math, and writing classes on Saturdays to prepare for academic success and a Chinese class to understand my elders and culture for when I’d visit China (thirteen years later). I had art lessons, learning the secrets to creating realistic pencil, pastel, and ink drawings. But what Mother was most excited about was music. It has the magic to speak without words and to touch without physical contact. She put her faith in music to transform me into the happiest of all children. She had no uncertainty about investing over $3000 in just the piano; though she knew nothing about musical tones or instruments, she chose the piano based on how Mary Had A Little Lamb sounded when she tapped it out with her index finger.
And so my entire world became defined by my relationships with books, art, and most importantly, music. I didn’t understand what it meant to have friends because I didn’t have many. I was trained to care about the products of my mind and skills, not those of social interactions. Dedicated to mastering all the sharp and flat keys, tempos and meters, and pitch patterns, I had no time to worry about birthday party invitations or sharing dolls. The piano became my most devoted companion, listening to every word my fingertips spoke. When I was happy, it was happy, joyous to be touched with enthusiastic skips along its sharps and flats. It sang fermatas loudly, sixteenth notes eagerly, and staccatos cheerfully.
But at other times, it was my enemy, someone who constantly reminded me of my mistakes. When I was unable to successfully translate the musical symbols before me, I became so angry. I glared at the its shiny surface and banged on it keys, but it continued to sit strong and unmoved. It wasn’t afraid to reveal my faults. It allowed me to play cacophony and harshly kick its pedals. Its suffering was of no concern to me, but my suffering was of its greatest concern. Though it desired to always sound beautiful, it wouldn’t lie to me. It spoke the truth that I wasn’t perfect, that I needed to be quicker and stronger. As a true friend, it risked my wrath and sacrificed my ego because it believed I was capable of being better. It knocked me down, but it always told me to try again, supporting me as I trudged up and over each hill.
Patience
Playing the piano became the most frustrating task I did everyday for almost decade, especially because even though I enjoyed the sound and overwhelming joy it evoked when it was done right, Mother had decided it was something I should do and be good at. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy to master as schoolwork or art; it couldn’t be done through just memorization. I’d often fail on the first, second, tenth, and twentieth try, an uncomfortable truth that infuriated me. Getting math problems and portraits done perfectly on the first try made me too familiar and obsessed with perfection and I was determined to create perfect melodies.
When I finally moved past the kiddie songs, I was immediately drawn to Beethoven’s Fur Elise, a classic piano song whose first 23 notes are extremely recognizable. Its title and simultaneous glee and sadness entranced me. Everyday for a month and a half, I approached the piano with apprehension, but determination. I could’ve given up and moved on to a different piece, but the piano’s presence in the room gave me the feeling that something was unfinished, urging me to try again. I took out Piano Pieces for Children: Everybody’s Favorite Series No.3 from the hidden storage beneath the seat and plopped it on the music desk. After flipping straight to page 73, I pushed along the gutter to keep it open and poised my curved hands above the familiar keys. I breathed in and held my breath for 3 seconds. On the exhale, I pushed my right pinky against E, involuntarily jerking my middle and ring fingers upwards, and then my ring finger against D-sharp. E. D-sharp. E. B. D. C. A. As my thumb finally made contact, I pushed my right foot against the right pedal, sustaining 5 notes at a time and for 44 bars, the notes poured out of the piano smoothly. But at bar 45, my flustered fingers couldn’t make the transition into the faster tempo, the unfamiliar rhythm pulling them away from the keys. My left pinky always fell a nanosecond behind my right pinky, resulting in a short, but all the same present, dissonance of sound. The intensifying cramp in my pinkies made it hard to bend them rapidly, but still I tried again and again and again. 56th time lucky, I finally hit the notes in the right order, on the right beat, and at the right volume. I tried the bar again. When the piano sang a second time without hesitation or error, I screamed hurrah! gleefully in my head as the piano hummed in unison. I turned back to page 73 and started from the top, adding perfected bars until I hit bar 83, and then the arduous process of practice started again. But with perseverance and time, muscle memory formed.
Day after day, the piano patiently kept me company and kindly pointed out my mistakes. The discord and stiff fingers were extremely discouraging, but I refused to be thwarted by an object that embodied beauty. I wanted to be connected to it, seen as an extension of it when I touched it, but every time I hit a wrong key, I’d blame it for somehow emitting energy strong enough to make my fingers slip. I so desperately wanted it to just obey my intentions instead of my amateur fingers, but it was resolute, making me achieve each technique and song to perfection. It forced me to confront my discontentment and blunders, inevitable occurrences in life, and to overcome them. As frustrated I was with being asked to do something I wasn’t immediately good at, the piano’s strength to withstand my anger and frustration motivated me to persist until I succeeded.
Forgiveness
After my 12th birthday, my interest in and commitment to art and music started to dwindle. Lessons were sparse and spaced further apart; eventually, I stopped taking them altogether. Without the obligation to practice or a deadline to make, I stopped visiting the northwest corner. It was strange not hearing the rapid sequence of scales being practiced or the tick of the metronome. The voice that sang sonatas and minuets to me daily was now mute. The silence that filled the house was eerie, but liberating. For years, I had toyed with its emotions, loving it for pushing me through anxiety and weakness and then hating it for causing me so much stress and anger. But now, I was free to exit the house without fear of being reprimanded by my piano teacher for not making enough progress or of forgetting how to play a piece I had just memorized. None of that mattered anymore. I eagerly stepped away from it, ready to enjoy activities of my choosing, and draped its jacket over the fallboard for what I assumed would be the last time.
So I finally made friends, even during my awkward middle school phase; joined the basketball team; started volunteering at a garden; went to parties; and even traveled to Spain. Instead of just going to school, doing homework, and practicing the piano, I suddenly had a myriad of activities to do and people to do them with. I still had a busy schedule, but it was one that I had created for the most part and was much more diverse. I loved this new life that I had stepped into. Was this what I had been missing out on for a piano?
For a long time I resented my piano. I believed it had held me back and limited my potential socially so that I had missed out on having a “normal and fun” childhood. I placed some of the blame on my mother, who was too keen to develop my potential and pushed me to start a relationship with an instrument I hadn’t even considered taking up. The rest went to my piano; it had consumed years of my life while causing great amounts of annoyance and dissatisfaction. Its existence made me angry at how much time I had wasted at those keys. Any good memories I had with it were tossed aside and forgotten.
After a wild, unexpected freshmen year at college, I came home to a very different atmosphere. Going to college in Michigan while all my friends stayed in New York was a daunting, but good decision; however, it meant distancing myself both physically and emotionally from them. Jobless and 650 miles from my closer friends, I had nothing to do for an entire summer. Out of sheer boredom, I stopped and sat on the piano seat, even though I had walked straight past it thousands of times since its last concert.
As I pulled back the jacket and pushed up the cover, a slight breeze grazed my cheeks as I peered at my long-lost black and white friends. I lifted the seat cover and grabbed an easy, level 2 songbook, for who knew how much my skills had regressed.
I sat my right thumb on middle C. A beat frequency reverberated out of the old, but still new looking piano. It wailed sorrowfully over its prolonged loneliness, but happily over the reunion. My old friend was so out of tune, but I was the only one present to hear, so it didn’t matter. To my ears, it was a trumpet sounding rekindled love.
C. E. F. G. Oh when the saints. C. E. F. G. Go marching in. C. E. F. G. E. C. E. D. Oh when the saints go marching in. I smiled at the familiarity of the tune and at how comfortably my hands laid on top of the keys. There was no awkwardness or tension; it treated me as kindly as it did the day it was hauled from a truck by two burly men and the days I spent trying to pick out the notes to Fur Elise. It offered me the same solace, companionship, patience, and confidence that it had everyday for seven years.
After playing some old favorites, Oh Susana, Ode to Joy, and Bach’s Prelude, I sat in silence flipping through all my old songbooks. As I read each title, parts of melodies began playing in my head, merging into each other and creating a beautiful symphony of my childhood. I was surprised I remembered so much, all the notes, the drama, and the emotions associated with each song, but I was even more surprised that I felt nostalgic. For years I had ignored and hated the beloved piano that I’ve spent more time with than any of my friends, and here I was, missing it. I felt saddened and ashamed to be in its presence. I stared at its still spotless, polished, black surface and I saw my reflection looking back. I looked at the photograph atop the piano that I hadn’t glanced at in years either; it was a photo taken on picture day in 3rd grade. I had chin length hair with bangs and a goofy grin revealing my missing front tooth. I realized I was still the same young girl who for fifty percent of the time took pride in the beautiful songs she was capable of making with her small hands, and for the other fifty, abhorred the existence of the thing that made her a crazy obsessive perfectionist. But I was also different, different because Mother was relentless in showing me the magic of a piano. Forcing me through trial and rewarding me with success, my piano shaped me into the resilient girl I am today.
Escape
Though I’d play around with the piano whenever I was home for summer or winter break, I never played it seriously again. I’d choose a few of my favorites and play them until they were good enough. Good enough, but not perfect. I no longer sought perfection because not only was it no longer possible, but also through experience in life and on the piano, I learned there’s so much more to gain than just technical perfection. During these brief 30-minute sessions, I would bask in the notes that surrounded me and allow the composer’s story to permeate my skin and to let me feel it from within. It was the time for me to learn and reflect on the wonderful things offered by the piano and on how I was changed and empowered by them.
I dreaded returning to school after winter break sophomore year as the only things I had to look forward to were extremely difficult courses and an unbearable amount of stress. But my residence, Stockwell dormitory, had two soundproof music rooms, each with a Yamaha upright piano. So every few days, I’d walk away from the massive pile of Powerpoint printouts waiting to be memorized and move towards a quiet room where I could find what I needed to calm myself. As I animated my fingers to A Thousand Miles and sang horribly off-key to Free Fallin’, I felt myself being removed from the chaotic world of academia to an immaterial world of beauty and warmth. For almost two decades, my piano had been the anchor that provided unselfish love. Each time I touched it, I entered a realm in which the only pressures were the ones I created for myself. Here, I was alone and only I could help myself.
As I tapped out the familiar Fur Elise on the wooden Yamahas with slightly lower tones, I found myself enter this extraordinary world again. I first discovered it while sitting at my piano, but I realize now it wasn’t just the piano’s creation. I had to create it myself; my piano was a guide that showed me how to find it. The happiness and calmness it instilled in me was something I, and Mother, had been searching for my entire life, and I realized if I tried, it could be found anywhere.
My piano extraordinarily showed me that within each of us, there exists a peace, one that can only be found if we are willing to open ourselves to the crazy world we live in and to take everything it has to offer: fear, excitement, and pride. Provided the tools to find it, such as books, paintbrushes, and instruments, everyone can find what grounds them and makes them have faith that happiness exists.
As her head elevated and her legs lengthened, her heart was pushed further and further away from it. Despite her growing disinterest towards and exasperation with it, it remained loyal to her. It was placed in the northwest corner of the living room underneath Mother’s handmade texturized painting of a lake. For fifteen years and counting, gravity pulled it deeper and deeper into the mauve carpet underneath, forcing its surroundings to accept it.
Its presence is now so engraved it disappears into the natural backdrop of the room. It never resists. It sits quietly, speaking only when spoken to, for giving is all it knows. Its body is never fully exposed, always protected by a thick black covering that’s sprinkled with more dust each time she returns. Mother created a fitted jacket, suede on the outside and fake-silk on the inside, that is never removed, only ever peeled back far enough to reveal the beautiful smudge-free shiny keys beneath and covered again once it was used and no longer desired.
Only she controlled its presence in the human world, touching it only when she needed a comforting voice or to prove something to herself. It didn’t know anything beyond the walls of the living room and her face, so it lived through her. Inanimate objects wither and age; wood weathers, metal rusts, and paper yellows. But this beautiful piano refused to, despite almost 2 decades of use and eventual neglect. As reflective and flawless as it was on the day it was bought in spring of 1998, it continues to shine as if unaware of its own beauty. Every time she lifts the fallboard, she wonders how the gold “YAMAHA” below the music desk still appears freshly painted. Its outer beauty is a perfect reflection of its inner beauty, but she only ever appreciates the former, dismissing the latter as insignificant. It selflessly teaches her patience, and forgiveness, qualities she didn’t understand. Her piano showed her a friendship and an escape that she didn’t believe existed.
Friend
Mother grew up as a Chinese child, not an American child. She didn’t watch Disney movies or have play dates. As the eldest sibling, from a very young age she had to focus on helping earn money, cook, clean, knit clothing, and look after her siblings. She didn’t have the opportunity to finish school or do much for herself. When she immigrated to New York, she was moved by the American children surrounded by leisure and happiness, something she didn’t have the privilege to experience as a young girl. In hopes of providing me with the opportunities that had escaped her, such as getting an education and developing creative talents, she focused all her time, energy, and money on immersing me in activities she could only have dreamed of doing in China. She wanted my hands to be rich with knowledge and art, not manual labor like hers. I took English, math, and writing classes on Saturdays to prepare for academic success and a Chinese class to understand my elders and culture for when I’d visit China (thirteen years later). I had art lessons, learning the secrets to creating realistic pencil, pastel, and ink drawings. But what Mother was most excited about was music. It has the magic to speak without words and to touch without physical contact. She put her faith in music to transform me into the happiest of all children. She had no uncertainty about investing over $3000 in just the piano; though she knew nothing about musical tones or instruments, she chose the piano based on how Mary Had A Little Lamb sounded when she tapped it out with her index finger.
And so my entire world became defined by my relationships with books, art, and most importantly, music. I didn’t understand what it meant to have friends because I didn’t have many. I was trained to care about the products of my mind and skills, not those of social interactions. Dedicated to mastering all the sharp and flat keys, tempos and meters, and pitch patterns, I had no time to worry about birthday party invitations or sharing dolls. The piano became my most devoted companion, listening to every word my fingertips spoke. When I was happy, it was happy, joyous to be touched with enthusiastic skips along its sharps and flats. It sang fermatas loudly, sixteenth notes eagerly, and staccatos cheerfully.
But at other times, it was my enemy, someone who constantly reminded me of my mistakes. When I was unable to successfully translate the musical symbols before me, I became so angry. I glared at the its shiny surface and banged on it keys, but it continued to sit strong and unmoved. It wasn’t afraid to reveal my faults. It allowed me to play cacophony and harshly kick its pedals. Its suffering was of no concern to me, but my suffering was of its greatest concern. Though it desired to always sound beautiful, it wouldn’t lie to me. It spoke the truth that I wasn’t perfect, that I needed to be quicker and stronger. As a true friend, it risked my wrath and sacrificed my ego because it believed I was capable of being better. It knocked me down, but it always told me to try again, supporting me as I trudged up and over each hill.
Patience
Playing the piano became the most frustrating task I did everyday for almost decade, especially because even though I enjoyed the sound and overwhelming joy it evoked when it was done right, Mother had decided it was something I should do and be good at. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy to master as schoolwork or art; it couldn’t be done through just memorization. I’d often fail on the first, second, tenth, and twentieth try, an uncomfortable truth that infuriated me. Getting math problems and portraits done perfectly on the first try made me too familiar and obsessed with perfection and I was determined to create perfect melodies.
When I finally moved past the kiddie songs, I was immediately drawn to Beethoven’s Fur Elise, a classic piano song whose first 23 notes are extremely recognizable. Its title and simultaneous glee and sadness entranced me. Everyday for a month and a half, I approached the piano with apprehension, but determination. I could’ve given up and moved on to a different piece, but the piano’s presence in the room gave me the feeling that something was unfinished, urging me to try again. I took out Piano Pieces for Children: Everybody’s Favorite Series No.3 from the hidden storage beneath the seat and plopped it on the music desk. After flipping straight to page 73, I pushed along the gutter to keep it open and poised my curved hands above the familiar keys. I breathed in and held my breath for 3 seconds. On the exhale, I pushed my right pinky against E, involuntarily jerking my middle and ring fingers upwards, and then my ring finger against D-sharp. E. D-sharp. E. B. D. C. A. As my thumb finally made contact, I pushed my right foot against the right pedal, sustaining 5 notes at a time and for 44 bars, the notes poured out of the piano smoothly. But at bar 45, my flustered fingers couldn’t make the transition into the faster tempo, the unfamiliar rhythm pulling them away from the keys. My left pinky always fell a nanosecond behind my right pinky, resulting in a short, but all the same present, dissonance of sound. The intensifying cramp in my pinkies made it hard to bend them rapidly, but still I tried again and again and again. 56th time lucky, I finally hit the notes in the right order, on the right beat, and at the right volume. I tried the bar again. When the piano sang a second time without hesitation or error, I screamed hurrah! gleefully in my head as the piano hummed in unison. I turned back to page 73 and started from the top, adding perfected bars until I hit bar 83, and then the arduous process of practice started again. But with perseverance and time, muscle memory formed.
Day after day, the piano patiently kept me company and kindly pointed out my mistakes. The discord and stiff fingers were extremely discouraging, but I refused to be thwarted by an object that embodied beauty. I wanted to be connected to it, seen as an extension of it when I touched it, but every time I hit a wrong key, I’d blame it for somehow emitting energy strong enough to make my fingers slip. I so desperately wanted it to just obey my intentions instead of my amateur fingers, but it was resolute, making me achieve each technique and song to perfection. It forced me to confront my discontentment and blunders, inevitable occurrences in life, and to overcome them. As frustrated I was with being asked to do something I wasn’t immediately good at, the piano’s strength to withstand my anger and frustration motivated me to persist until I succeeded.
Forgiveness
After my 12th birthday, my interest in and commitment to art and music started to dwindle. Lessons were sparse and spaced further apart; eventually, I stopped taking them altogether. Without the obligation to practice or a deadline to make, I stopped visiting the northwest corner. It was strange not hearing the rapid sequence of scales being practiced or the tick of the metronome. The voice that sang sonatas and minuets to me daily was now mute. The silence that filled the house was eerie, but liberating. For years, I had toyed with its emotions, loving it for pushing me through anxiety and weakness and then hating it for causing me so much stress and anger. But now, I was free to exit the house without fear of being reprimanded by my piano teacher for not making enough progress or of forgetting how to play a piece I had just memorized. None of that mattered anymore. I eagerly stepped away from it, ready to enjoy activities of my choosing, and draped its jacket over the fallboard for what I assumed would be the last time.
So I finally made friends, even during my awkward middle school phase; joined the basketball team; started volunteering at a garden; went to parties; and even traveled to Spain. Instead of just going to school, doing homework, and practicing the piano, I suddenly had a myriad of activities to do and people to do them with. I still had a busy schedule, but it was one that I had created for the most part and was much more diverse. I loved this new life that I had stepped into. Was this what I had been missing out on for a piano?
For a long time I resented my piano. I believed it had held me back and limited my potential socially so that I had missed out on having a “normal and fun” childhood. I placed some of the blame on my mother, who was too keen to develop my potential and pushed me to start a relationship with an instrument I hadn’t even considered taking up. The rest went to my piano; it had consumed years of my life while causing great amounts of annoyance and dissatisfaction. Its existence made me angry at how much time I had wasted at those keys. Any good memories I had with it were tossed aside and forgotten.
After a wild, unexpected freshmen year at college, I came home to a very different atmosphere. Going to college in Michigan while all my friends stayed in New York was a daunting, but good decision; however, it meant distancing myself both physically and emotionally from them. Jobless and 650 miles from my closer friends, I had nothing to do for an entire summer. Out of sheer boredom, I stopped and sat on the piano seat, even though I had walked straight past it thousands of times since its last concert.
As I pulled back the jacket and pushed up the cover, a slight breeze grazed my cheeks as I peered at my long-lost black and white friends. I lifted the seat cover and grabbed an easy, level 2 songbook, for who knew how much my skills had regressed.
I sat my right thumb on middle C. A beat frequency reverberated out of the old, but still new looking piano. It wailed sorrowfully over its prolonged loneliness, but happily over the reunion. My old friend was so out of tune, but I was the only one present to hear, so it didn’t matter. To my ears, it was a trumpet sounding rekindled love.
C. E. F. G. Oh when the saints. C. E. F. G. Go marching in. C. E. F. G. E. C. E. D. Oh when the saints go marching in. I smiled at the familiarity of the tune and at how comfortably my hands laid on top of the keys. There was no awkwardness or tension; it treated me as kindly as it did the day it was hauled from a truck by two burly men and the days I spent trying to pick out the notes to Fur Elise. It offered me the same solace, companionship, patience, and confidence that it had everyday for seven years.
After playing some old favorites, Oh Susana, Ode to Joy, and Bach’s Prelude, I sat in silence flipping through all my old songbooks. As I read each title, parts of melodies began playing in my head, merging into each other and creating a beautiful symphony of my childhood. I was surprised I remembered so much, all the notes, the drama, and the emotions associated with each song, but I was even more surprised that I felt nostalgic. For years I had ignored and hated the beloved piano that I’ve spent more time with than any of my friends, and here I was, missing it. I felt saddened and ashamed to be in its presence. I stared at its still spotless, polished, black surface and I saw my reflection looking back. I looked at the photograph atop the piano that I hadn’t glanced at in years either; it was a photo taken on picture day in 3rd grade. I had chin length hair with bangs and a goofy grin revealing my missing front tooth. I realized I was still the same young girl who for fifty percent of the time took pride in the beautiful songs she was capable of making with her small hands, and for the other fifty, abhorred the existence of the thing that made her a crazy obsessive perfectionist. But I was also different, different because Mother was relentless in showing me the magic of a piano. Forcing me through trial and rewarding me with success, my piano shaped me into the resilient girl I am today.
Escape
Though I’d play around with the piano whenever I was home for summer or winter break, I never played it seriously again. I’d choose a few of my favorites and play them until they were good enough. Good enough, but not perfect. I no longer sought perfection because not only was it no longer possible, but also through experience in life and on the piano, I learned there’s so much more to gain than just technical perfection. During these brief 30-minute sessions, I would bask in the notes that surrounded me and allow the composer’s story to permeate my skin and to let me feel it from within. It was the time for me to learn and reflect on the wonderful things offered by the piano and on how I was changed and empowered by them.
I dreaded returning to school after winter break sophomore year as the only things I had to look forward to were extremely difficult courses and an unbearable amount of stress. But my residence, Stockwell dormitory, had two soundproof music rooms, each with a Yamaha upright piano. So every few days, I’d walk away from the massive pile of Powerpoint printouts waiting to be memorized and move towards a quiet room where I could find what I needed to calm myself. As I animated my fingers to A Thousand Miles and sang horribly off-key to Free Fallin’, I felt myself being removed from the chaotic world of academia to an immaterial world of beauty and warmth. For almost two decades, my piano had been the anchor that provided unselfish love. Each time I touched it, I entered a realm in which the only pressures were the ones I created for myself. Here, I was alone and only I could help myself.
As I tapped out the familiar Fur Elise on the wooden Yamahas with slightly lower tones, I found myself enter this extraordinary world again. I first discovered it while sitting at my piano, but I realize now it wasn’t just the piano’s creation. I had to create it myself; my piano was a guide that showed me how to find it. The happiness and calmness it instilled in me was something I, and Mother, had been searching for my entire life, and I realized if I tried, it could be found anywhere.
My piano extraordinarily showed me that within each of us, there exists a peace, one that can only be found if we are willing to open ourselves to the crazy world we live in and to take everything it has to offer: fear, excitement, and pride. Provided the tools to find it, such as books, paintbrushes, and instruments, everyone can find what grounds them and makes them have faith that happiness exists.