The piano is from my great-grandmother -- a 1917 baby grand that I spent
15 mortgage payments and 3 years refurbishing via an artisan of epic talent. It is stunning. It plays like only a piano of that era can.
This piano and I are now in the same home for the first time in 20 years. Those 20 years and the metaphor of the piano in my life are a story for another post, another time, when I have 5,000 or so words to waste.
Back to piano lessons. Sort of.
I have a colleague who plays the piano like a new-age angel. She composed, performed and produced her own CD a few years ago. Last Christmas, she gifted me with a copy and I have had it in the CD player in my car ever since. It's exactly the decompression I need during my commute.
It's also the music that is playing as I schlep MiniMe and Muggsy to and from their respective schools each day. I credit the music for soothing the savage beast of school-based overstimulation, but, other than background, I'm not sure they really listen to it.
Until last week. I had the volume low so only I could hear it.
MiniMe: Mommy, turn up the music.
Me: Sure, Punkin, how come?
MiniMe: I want to learn to play the piano.
Me: How is this going to help?
MiniMe: Because, Mommy, when you listen to songs your brain remembers them. Then you just need a piano to play them on.
So she has a piano to play them on, and a teacher to help the brain-to-keyboard translation. I am in heaven. My little girl is learning to play the piano!