I’m in a slump regarding my interest in piano. It’s been three years since I began to take weekly lessons. It’s been two years since I bought my own Kawai grand piano; which cost more than the car I drive. It’s been one year since I began using the particular music book, trying to master each lesson while all the time wondering what I am doing here?
Perhaps my malaise is about “never.” I’ll never play Carnegie Hall; in fact, I’ll probably never play for anyone beyond my immediate family. I’ll never have the dexterity or music sense that might have been mine, had I started lessons fifty years ago. I’ll never play by ear.
None of this is new information, but this week – in spite of how far I’ve actually come – it seems heavy, like I don’t want to carry it around any more. I think perhaps I’m regressing to age ten.
So now I’m ten and I’ve taken piano for three years and I want to spend the practice time playing baseball instead. My Mother will probably throw a fit, but I’m going to try and quit piano anyway. I approach her one night after supper, when she’s through with the dishes and working on her next afghan. It’s a dingy color, if you ask me, so she’ll probably be ready to talk.
I tell her how I don’t want to take piano lessons any more, that I think baseball is more important. I want to be outside with my pals. It isn’t something I’ve thought out very well, but it comes from the heart. She listens, but keeps on crocheting. Says nothing. Waits.
“Can I quit?” I finally ask, holding my breath for the verdict.
Then, suddenly, I’m myself again. I see that if she had granted my wish I would now be wishing that I hadn’t quit piano lessons. My baseball days would be over, except for an occasional armchair view of a televised game. But learning to play piano, even at this late date, is something I can actively enjoy for the rest of my life. I guess once in a while the student just needs a break and it might not coincide with the school’s spring break or Christmas holidays.
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