I am in another time crunch period, where there is too much to do and I have no time to write or read blogs. I dislike these times; I feel my days and nights are consumed with obligations which allow no time to sit still. Blogging is associated with quiet time and leisure: when I don’t have the later, there is no former. I miss reading my regulars. I hope all is well enough. I hope to get a breather soon. Meanwhile, let me pull up an essay I wrote some time ago, which I did not publish. It was sorrowful to confess.
I started piano lessons when I was small – could it have been when I was only six years old? In theory I have two pianos: my paternal grandmother’s upright four legged spinit, and my maternal grandmother’s baby grand. The grand is with my parent’s. Inside it is a signature of a pianist who once played on it.
Throughout my life I’ve had periods of not playing much but it was never to the point of ‘I am no longer playing’. I like to think I was a decent piano player. I certainly enjoyed playing. It was a joy to attempt such works as Chopin’s Nocturnes and Bach’s two-point inventions. I never saw myself as a pianist but as someone who plays the piano. I played for myself, and the joy it provided.
I sometimes tend to blame my last teacher for the demise of piano playing. He was shocked by my bad form; the previous teacher had taught me so many bad habits. (this bewildered me, for my former teacher was a church organist, and he installed in me excitement for music). My last teacher went about trying to correct my many faults, from my poor posture and bad fingering, to poor interpretation. I was aware “I was not so good”. Playing the piano went from something fun to something that needed improvement. This required a lot of practice and time, and I had neither. I suppose I do not have the patience needed to be a decent piano player. And who would know? I play for myself, not for others (Indeed, playing the piano is such an intimate thing for me I tend to only play when no one is about).
Why is this coming up now? Normally we tune the piano for the holidays; this year we did not do so. It made me realize I can not remember the last time I played the piano. Someone thinks it may be a few years since I touched the ivories. I intuit he is right. This shocks and saddens me. I feel bad 40 years of playing the piano have come to nothing. It also make me feel guilty; the rationale is so much time/work gone into it I should keep going.
Yet, when I am honest with myself, I don’t have desire to play. Maybe it is as simple as piano is – was – a hobby that no longer holds any interest or pleasure. I dare say it would take a lot of time to relearn even the simplest of pieces. And would be the nagging sense I am doing it all wrong.
Piano playing joins the pile of discarded past times for which I ultimately have no time nor talent.