By the time this column is in print, I should have completed a mission I set out to accomplish this summer.
Truth be told, I set out to do the same mission last year — and a similar version of it the year before that.
And maybe even the year before that.
This summer, finally, I’ve put my full effort into accomplishing this goal — and I may have aimed too high. Still, the train is on the track and should arrive Sunday morning at my church.
I plan to play a song on the piano during the offertory. Our church’s choir takes time off in the summer, and the church invites members to sign up for a Sunday. Back in May, August seemed like a long time away — plenty of time to learn to play a song.
After all, I was a good piano player.
Turns out, the emphasis should be on the past tense of that verb in the preceding sentence.
Piano and I go way back. I took lessons every week of school from third through 10th grades. After that school year, my mom had a baby. My dad became a high school principal, and we moved from our longtime town. My piano lessons went by the wayside.
But during those eight years I took lessons, my parents didn’t believe in simply paying for piano lessons, which meant I had to practice every day for at least 30 minutes, preferably an hour.
Fortunately, I loved to play the piano and enjoyed my time practicing (at least for most songs). Then, there were also recital duets with my cousin, solo pieces and state contests.
During most weeks of those years, I played the piano or took lessons at least seven hours. However, in the more than four decades since, I doubt I have played the piano a total of seven hours cumulatively.
That is, until this summer.
Finding the time and place to practice piano has been such an interesting process. The first challenge was in finding the right song to play. After eight false starts, I decided on something I’d once played well. I remembered a beautiful song I played in middle school called “The Homecoming” by Hagood Hardy.
It’s a song that used to touch my heart all those years ago. I still remember the color blue of its cover. Sometimes sitting at the piano in my family’s living room, the chords struck so right that it felt like the real-life version of “the songs that make the young girls cry,” just like Barry Manilow used to sing about.
Growing up, I played “The Homecoming” as often as I could and imagined the nostalgia of coming home.
After multiple failed attempts to locate the exact arrangement I’d played back then, I finally found it — just a month before my turn for the special music. Practice began in earnest.
Muscle memory is real, and some elements of the piece came back immediately. As I played the piece repeatedly, I remembered specific chords my middle school piano teacher, Mrs. Hayes, loved.
I remember how easily the song used to be to play — so smooth. Nothing about getting it right this time has been easy or smooth.
When I sit down at the piano this weekend, my fingers may fumble and my timing may drift — but I will be there, just as I was so many years ago, doing something I once loved.
The exercise of practicing this song all these years later has been a bit like time travel. It’s been a reminder of that feeling of a teacher sitting beside me, looking over my shoulder, and how hitting the wrong notes sent a jarring sensation down to my toes.
The song is just as lovely as I remembered. Even in my imperfect playing, those beautiful moments still shine. These days, I don’t have a piano at home. So, every time I see one, I take a moment to give my best effort toward this song I loved as a seventh grader.
And the music carries me back again and again.
So, in case you are somewhere and hear an occasionally hesitant version of a beautiful song, know that I very well may be the one on the piano bench, smiling like a middle schooler who’s just found her way home to her favorite chord.
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