Soul Sounds

I acquired a piano last week – a digital ebony baby grand.  Now, when I say “baby” think newborn because this tiny  bit of preciousness fits perfectly in the corner of my townhouse living room.   It’s beautiful, and every time I see it, my heart smiles.

I don’t play piano with an abundance of talent; I just love music.  Like every other little girl I knew growing up, I took years of piano lessons; I took 10 to be exact.  But that’s been lifetimes ago, and since I’m not telling you my age, all you really need to know is that I haven’t played for a long, long time. (To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, a woman who tells you her real age will tell you anything.; so, don’t trust her.)  Oh, but I’ve desired that piano, that outlet of my spirit so badly for so long.

Something about the simple fact that I can walk across the room, stroke the keys (also control volume for the sake of my neighbors), and admire the instrument’s classic lines while knowing that I can play (badly) anytime or anything I want, hands me hope.  And let’s face it, this year has been devoid of hopeful things.  (I know I’m not alone in this; 2014 has, thus far, been yucky for many, many people out there.)

I don’t like playing in public or for anyone, even family, really.  I still retain a portion of that type-A perfectionism, and I want to play well if anyone else is listening.  It’s a fault, I know, but this personality – this heart – were known well before I was knit together.  Do I think God can change my fear of public humiliation grand piano style?  Absolutely, but the piano playing itself,  I think, is tangential; it has nothing to do with the redemption or remediation of myself and my personality.

I was always recalcitrant to play for others, even at the requisite yearly recitals.  In fact, the only things I remember about my first recital performed when  I was 5 years-old, is the lavender floral print dress I wore and that I failed to curtsy.  Instead,  I literally  ran out of the room after I’d played my  little piece. My father has a picture of it somewhere: all you see is the dress, my black patent Mary-Janes and a blurry rush of a tiny blonde child.

It’s odd.  I’m not afraid of speaking in public.  I gave the opening address at my college pinning ceremony (It’s a nurse thing.) and then MC’d the rest of it.  The ceremony was out in the open air at the far end of The Lawn at  the University of Virginia.  Not only were there several hundred people in attendance, but the sound system carried my voice far down the Lawn from Old Cabell Hall to Jefferson’s rotunda.  Everyone on central Grounds could hear me.  And I was exhilarated, trembling, and poised at the same time as only a Southern woman can be.  I was good at what I did because I believed I’d do it well.  No, I knew I’d do it well.

(BTW: UVa has it’s own language.  The Lawn is simply that: a long stretch of green grass running down the middle of the Central Grounds which were designed by T. Jefferson himself. . While the word “campus” is prohibited in exchange for the word “Grounds,”  it’s not worth a public stoning or anything.  But… the culture of  this 200 year old school permits ostracism should one not fall in line with the secret UVa language – quickly.  It is what it is, folks.)

So, my public grace, (also a Southern woman thing) does not extend to playing a musical instrument  in public, where I’m terrified to be the subject of ridicule.  I’m positive it’s all about confidence, and this is an area I lack in abundance.  But it doesn’t stop me from turning the digital piano’s volume all the way down ( LOVE that feature as my back wall neighbor is just the teeniest bit cranky ) – and playing merely to lift and  offer my heart.  When I play, no verbal expressions do I utter; oh, but if you could hear my soul.

Playing the piano for me is like running.  It’s a prayer, a hope, a time for confession and supplication tempered by the willingness -the longing – to be forgiven.  It’s a direct heart-line to God.  (Picture aluminum can and string “telephones” from childhood, and if that isn’t a familiar visual example, picture the Progresso soup commercials.)  And I think,  hope, desperately desire that He accepts my simple act of faith because that is exactly what my piano time is – the joy I’ve found in the immediate here and now and the hope that tomorrow brings more strength than I think I possess today.

He who created us, knows our hearts and souls intimately.  So, when I rip apart Rachmaninoff or massacre Mozart, He knows my intentions were actually the surrender of myself to His will –  to glorify Him in a way that only music can..  I think (hope) He chooses to be tone deaf when I play, but the intrinsic value does not lie in the quality of sound resonating from the keyboard and speakers.

“I will go where you go, and your people will be my people.” As in Ruth, it’s a heart thing.  It’s not whether I’m good or bad, just that I’m willing.