What playing means to me

19 Nov

for a long time, or at least for somewhat extended periods of time, i didn’t touch the piano.  i was at college, or i was in sports, or i had just moved to the dc area.  it sort of doesn’t matter the excuse; i didn’t exercise my creativity on the piano.

a few years ago, my good friend audrey gave me hers.  it’s a saloon style guy; gigantic and intimidating, and very very old.  it had been collecting dust for years, and the promise of my playing it was imminent.  it deserved to sing.

after the most nightmarish move i’ve ever witnessed from a terrible moving company that broke its gorgeous mirror and then denied all of my requests for reimbursement, the piano hugged my wall.  it sounded awful.  josh tried playing suzuki on it.  it made my ears hurt.  my heart sank.  i had a behemoth wanting me to love it, and i didn’t.  plus it smelled like a garage.

i played it a few times.  i got it tuned once.  then, another couple years passed with only a few tickles.

then, for some reason, i sat down early this year and gave it a go.  i did the next night, too, and then i called the tuner again.  i’d found something in my brain that was cooped up for a while; secondary to all the other fun slash distracting things in my life.

i started recording a bit.  i started playing duets with a friend, who’d bring his guitar and make music with me.  i started singing again.  i’d start playing and 45 minutes later realize my back was hurting from not moving.  well, swaying maybe.

because i was playing so often, i heard the pitch start waning before it moved too far.  the piano tuner came back.  twice in one year.

my piano is happy.  so am i.


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