Random notes from an inadequate pianist

We should extend our reach beyond our grasp…or is it the other way around?

It’s a day when having a roof over your head is particularly gratifying. A gentle thunderstorm has been enough to send the dogs into hiding, so I am alone this morning. It’s the kind of storm that has no visible lightning, and amidst the long rolls and the gently falling rain I can hear birdsong and some very busy woodpeckers. I am trying not to think of all the times March precipitation has meant snow around here, and a big fire. But I haven’t even lit candles in case the scent sets off a new bout of coughing.

I slept so late that the turkeys have already moved off to the orchard. This is so unusual as to be almost unheard of. But I am feeling better. Not like running a race, mind you, but interested in things, and able to make plans. I woke this morning wondering whether a section of the novel ought to be cut, and for me that means my brain is back. It’s one of my favorite sections of the book, but I know from my own advice that sometimes you have to be ruthless. We will see.

You might think the piano is a distraction from writing, but I have discovered that when I practice particularly intensively, I often step away from the keyboard with my brain in high gear. I think it is the deep concentration I need to coordinate all the different things: the eyes reading two clefs; the fingers and hands not jumbling; looking ahead to what’s coming. It’s almost meditative, and absolute focus is required. One dog nose, a sound from the kitchen, or any random thought, and I fall right off the tightrope.

There’s a piece I recall from a recording in my childhood that I have found the music for, and although it looks simple enough on the page, I find it devilishly difficult. It’s a mazurka. The left and right hands cross; both hands have to make intuitive leaps among octaves; chords stretch my small hands almost beyond reach; there are accidentals and above-the-staff notes, and key changes in the middle. When I look down to see where my hands are, I lose my place on the page. On top of everything else, I found an error in the notation. It’s a nightmare. But I am determined to be able to sit down and play it. It’s a challenge, but achievable.

But I had a funny moment this week with another piece, a Beethoven sonata that I like just one movement of. (I am like this. If I don’t like the whole piece I just play the movements I like. Why not, right? On the other hand, I know from experience that you can suddenly fall in love with a piece of music you never liked before, so sometimes you have to stick with the boring parts.) Anyway, I bought the music—even though I have a book of the complete sonatas still packed away in the crawl space while the bookcases are being built— and began to look at the beautiful, flowing piece of music with the running legato and the joyful melody. I was playing along slowly—as I was learning the notes and fingering—and thinking I didn’t completely understand how the melody fit together, so I decided to play a recording of it. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. If I ever succeed in achieving the virtuosity required to play this one movement, it will be my crowning glory. The speed. The complexity. The formidable agility required all make it damn close to—if not actually— beyond my reach. Oh well. We all have dreams. But it will be the work of years.

The storm has intensified and Eli has returned from hiding and is trying to climb into the fireplace. I should probably go.

Happy Sunday!

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Be of good cheer.

JFR

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And now for your gratuitous dog photo:

Eli may be wearing his raincoat, but he has steadfastly refused to go outside in the rain, never mind the thunder. He has been trying to hide from the storm in the fireplace, so I am keeping an eye on him. We may need to install fireplace doors; the mesh screen is not sufficient to keep him out. Meanwhile, he is trembling with fear, and inconsolable.