My Piano

At the age of three or four, I began begging my mom for piano lessons.  My grandmother played.  My aunts played.  My mother played.  My sister played.  My cousins played.  Nearly every time I was with my extended family, a summer evening would end with an aunt or cousin at the piano, with the rest of us picking out hymns or show tunes for her to play, while the rest of us sang along in multi-part harmony.  These are some of my happiest memories as a child.  And so I wanted to have my part in this wonderful legacy, to be able to make music, to be the one to play the piano.

Finally, when I was at the ripe old age of five, my mother relented, and started my piano lessons.  Mrs Turner was my first teacher.  She lived a few doors down from us, and I remember skipping happily down the street to her house on my lesson days.  In her living room stood the most beautiful baby grand piano I had ever seen.  Her living room was one of those 'museum' rooms that is meant to remain clean, beautiful, and orderly, and only entered on a special occasion.  This made sitting at her piano seem monumental, almost worshipful, and however excited and eager I was as I skipped to her house, I tried to remember to be respectful and solemn as I entered the living room, which I thought of as a sort of shrine to her beautiful piano.  

She always made me wash my hands when I got there, so I would not get the keys dirty, which added to the solemnity of my piano lessons.  But once I had my hands cleaned and was ready to begin, I would hop up onto the piano bench, and sit in awe of the beautiful black and white keys and the massive brown lid rising above the sound board.  I, little me, who was nearly the youngest cousin, the baby sister who was often told I wasn't 'big enough' to do this, or wasn't 'old enough' to do that...got to touch this beautiful piano and make music!  

I often got scolded for swinging my feet as I played, since I was so little my feet didn't touch the floor.  And I usually got corrected for my fingering being incorrect, or for playing too fast through a piece I knew well.  But gradually, the pieces got slightly more complex, and a bit longer.  Slightly more difficult, or a bit more challenging.  I only took lessons from Mrs Turner for a few years before we moved away, but as soon as we moved to a new home, my mom found me a new teacher.  

I remember somewhere around eight or nine, I had grown tired of piano lessons.  I felt trapped inside, practicing while my friends played outside, riding bikes or playing on swing-sets.  It wasn't as if I never did those things, but in my mind, that extra 1/2 hour of practice was torture, and I hated it.  There was one song on a record album my mother owned that I adored, and I told my mom I refused to take piano lessons one day past learning to play that song.  I begged her to let me quit.  She bought me a book that had the song in it, and promised I could quit when I reached Junior High school, if I still wanted to.  

I thought those years were torture, and yet, slowly I progressed.  Some of my songs were recognizable classics or pieces that I would hear my aunts play at Grandma's house.  Sometimes, the classical pieces were several pages long, and I would sit in my mother's basement, playing her old upright piano, imagining myself on a stage in some concert hall, once again playing a beautiful grand piano...but only to ward off the drudgery, of course.  Sometimes, I would try to sing along with a hymn, or make my way through a book full of show tunes, dreaming of when it would be my turn to play for my cousins.....but only because I hated practicing so much.  

And then the summer came when I was getting ready to begin Junior High school.  My mom and I were on a back-to-school shopping trip when she said, 'Well, you're starting Junior High.  I guess we're going to end your piano lessons now.  I promised you we would.'  And that's when it suddenly hit me.  I didn't hate the piano!  I didn't want to quit playing!  I almost had a meltdown, right there in the store!  No!!  You can't quit my lessons! I LOVE the piano!  I LOVE playing!  I LOVE my lessons!!  Mom relented pretty easily, and I only realized years later she'd probably never really intended to make me give up my lessons.  Well played, mom.  

I continued lessons all the way through high school.  My last few years of school, I even took lessons at a studio in a piano store.  There, I was welcome to arrive before my lessons, or stay after for as long as I wished and play any of the gorgeous, gleaming black grand pianos that sat around the showroom.  It was a privilege allowed to very few students, and I was honored.  Once again, playing the piano rose to become something worshipful and special, something I looked forward to at every occasion.  And that song I wanted to be able to play before I quit my lessons?  I played it from memory for my Senior recital, and for a church-sponsored music competition.  I went all the way to international competition with it. 

I may not play every day now, and when I do, it is primarily for my own enjoyment, or for the enjoyment of family or friends.  I'm not a professional pianist, or even a church pianist.  I don't own a grand piano, although it was the very first item I added when I decided to create a bucket list.  But I still adore the piano, and I still love playing.  Mom gave me more than skill at playing an instrument.  All those years of lessons taught me to keep working toward a goal.  To stick with a project, even when it's hard.  That following through with your plan has rewards, even if you don't like the process.  There were so many things I learned besides just how to read music and how to play the piano.  

Playing the piano will always be a joy to me.  And I'm grateful for all the things it has taught me.  

Friends

Friends are one of the first joys we have in our lives.  It is a rare person who hasn't watched as two little strangers meet up on a playground in a park, only to be the best of friends within minutes.  Children are rarely bothered by looks or gender, economic status or ethnicity,  beliefs or nationality.  If someone is smiling, they smile back.  If someone is sad, they want to help fix it.  To a child, friends are simply 'all the other people in the world'.  That is so wonderful in some ways, but incredibly shallow...child-like.

As we grow up, we learn to filter and screen and eliminate some of those people, and our friends become something altogether more valuable and precious.  Maybe there aren't as many of them.  Maybe there are precious few.  But those people are cherished and treasured in our lives. In the last few days, I have had the joy of spending time with some of the most precious people in my life.  

One of them is someone with whom I share a lifelong dream of writing a book.  She is quite a bit ahead of me on her book, but she is always a source of inspiration and encouragement.  She is always there to keep me focused, to answer questions, even to prod me forward when I need it.  I don't get to see her nearly as often as I would like. It's likely my book would get done faster if I did.  But Sherah is irreplaceable.  

Another is one of my business partners.  She always has some encouragement for me.  She and I review our goals together and plan for the future and growth of our business together.  She is there in the trenches with me when I get bogged down, always reminding why we do what we do, and always helping me keep my next goal in front of me.  She doesn't accept average from me, because she knows I'm better than average.  But she's always there to remind me I'm better, when I need it.  She's like my own personal cheerleader, although I'm SURE Leah would bop me over the head with them if I got her a set of pom-poms....

One of my most precious treasures of a friend has been a mentor to me for years, now.  She is where I turn for guidance with the 'big things' life throws at me.  And she has been so steadfast and loyal.  She is the voice of calm stability when the sky is falling.  She is the one who rushes in to the situation when my life is on fire and helps me figure things out when everyone else might be running the other direction.  She has been an irreplaceable source of growth to me, and I am so blessed to have Renee in my life.  

Very dear to my heart is my friend who is running along side me as Jamie and I build our business.  She and her husband have a business as well, and while each business has it's own goals and plans, it's become a kind of friendly competition between us.  She is a utter professional, and she is such an inspiration and motivation as a friend.  She is a determined goal-setter, and it's always a challenge keeping up with her, but I love that about her, because it keeps me on my toes, and keeps me moving ahead on those days when I really would rather hibernate.  It's so awesome to have a pace-setter like Kendra in my life!

One of the dearest friends I've ever had is someone who was originally a Navy buddy of Jamie's.  He came over to hang out with Jamie, and we've been the dearest of friends ever since.  I can always count on him to share a new piece of music, or a new composer.  To express a point of view I hadn't thought of or delve into a philosophical controversy with me.  We share a love of piano and art, of country and family.  I don't get to talk to him often, either, but it's like an oasis in my day when I get a few minutes to chat with Tom.  

God has blessed me with many friends.  But these few give such special things to my life, and have been such a blessing, that they are my everyday joy today.  

Summer Nights

Summer has always been one of my favorite seasons.  From as far back as I can remember, the word summer has conjured images of beaches and sunshine, bare feet and homemade icecream.  Bicycles and swimming pools, honeysuckle and bumblebees.  And I love all these things.  It just wouldn't really feel like summer without them.

But I think one of my favorite parts of summer is the nighttime.  All the playing is over.  All the tourists have left the beach, and the only ones left are the locals, hardcore stragglers going for a moonlit walk on the sand.  The littlest are in bed, dreaming of new adventures for the day to come.

Like so many God-given nightlights, the lightning bugs twinkle on and off, enticing children to play, to catch one, just to watch it light up, captive in their hands before it flies away again.  Marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate bars appear around the campfire, ready to tempt even the strongest willpower with the toasty, melty goodness of a s'more...

And the nighttime breeze begins, replacing the sweltering humidity with a cool refreshment. Honeysuckle, night-blooming jasmine, and magnolia drift to scent the night with nature's perfume, while the cool air relaxes and refreshes, and slowly lulls the world to sleep.  

This is my favorite time of the day, when the world has settled quietly under it's blanket of night, gently dreaming of the day ahead.  This time of day seems to settle peace over my soul, no matter what the challenges of the day have been, no matter what looms over tomorrow.  It's such a gift to experience.  Such a joy to watch the calm settle on the harried world, and have all the trials of the day melt away in jasmine-scented peace.

Office Hours

Darling Husband has his own office.

This sentence, in any rational sense of grammar, should not be a source of...well, of any emotion, joy or frustration, anger or happiness.  It is just a normal, random sentence that might be said in any of millions of homes across the country.

But Darling Husband and I have spent the last seven years living in apartments that were too small to even have a division between a living room and a dining room.  They were usually too small to have a kitchen that had more counter space than is required to set a toaster on, to say nothing of actually working in.  So, for the last seven years, IF we had an extra bedroom, it usually was bedroom/craft room/guest room/office/den combination.  It would be used for whatever length of time it was needed, in whatever capacity was currently the  most urgent.

Darling Husband rarely complained.  He just kept all of his personal mementos packed away, and patiently set up the printer on the dining room table, or spread school books all over the living room, or made whatever arrangements had to be made to accommodate our cramped quarters.  I encouraged him, often, to take over the extra room and make it his own, but just as he was nearly ready to set up a desk, it seemed something always caused him to put it off.  A guest would come for a few days. One of our kids would need to move home for a couple months.  I would be in the middle of a craft project which ate up the floor space in the extra room.  Something.

Well, in our new house, we have a room that is, has always been, will always be designated as the office.  We've been in the house for almost two months now, and 'the office' has looked like a storage unit, stacked high with boxes.  But this afternoon, finally, Jamie started unpacking.  His life has been quite an adventure.  He grew up as the child of missionaries in Papua New Guinea.  His parents later went to Africa.  And he served 20 years in the U.S. Navy, so he went to many other places on deployment.  Opening the boxes was something nearing Christmas for him.  Every single box held a treasure.  There were New Guinean masks in one box.  There was a bottle of water from a stream near the Blarney Stone in another, tucked in with gravel from an Italian ruin.  There was a bit of sand from the shores of Puerto Rico packed next to a marble goblet from Germany.  Another box held an African pygmy bow and arrows.  We found his antique book collection, with funny rare books like a book of etiquette from the 1800s nestled along side his first edition of Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls.

So many of his treasures, bits of his life, memories, that have gone unseen, unspoken of, and uncelebrated for so long.  Too long.  I am thrilled that Jamie finally has his own office.  Yes, of course I am.  But the bigger joy is that he has a place to show off all those little things that mean so much to him, where they can be valued and appreciated, where his life, and all it's memories can be valued and appreciated every single day.  Because they are.  He is.  Today, Jamie is my everyday joy.

Adventures in Babysitting

This morning I got to watch two of my favorite littles.  Kade and Jessa are my best friends kids, and they are five and two.  It is always so much fun to play with them and talk to them.  The world is so bright and new and amazing when you're a preschooler.

Today, they decided they would like to watch movies.  I agreed.  After all, it is the middle of the summer here on the East Coast, and sweltering outside.  So they rummaged through my stack of DVDs for 'the perfect movie'.

We decided to watch Prince of Egypt.  It was always one of my favorites when my kids were growing up, so I enjoyed it as much as they did.  One of my favorite parts, tho, was watching Kade's face as he watched the movie.

When the Israelites crossed the Red Sea on dry ground, his eyes got huge.  When Moses raised his staff and lightning struck it, and began swirling the water, he leaned over the arm of the couch in rapt attention.  But when the Egyptian army drowned in the collapsing Red Sea as the Israelites looked on in awe, his reaction was the best.

With an equally awed tone in his little voice, he whispered, "Woah...."

Woah, indeed, Kade.

Thank you, Kade for renewing the wonder of a well-known story, and for sharing my morning with me.