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Piano Musings... 

Asha Frost - Sunday, April 14, 2013

When I was five, I begged my mom for piano lessons.  She tells me that after my first lesson I told that that it was not anything that I expected.  She said that I told her that I thought it would be all of these children sitting with mini pianos waiting for the teacher to instruct them.  Needless to say, I truly loved what had actually transpired.  I loved the piano.

 

As I matured, I changed teachers and the piano became a huge part of my life.  At times, it was a source of contention with my mother as there was so much damn practicing.  The shy child within, was pushed to engage in competitions and recitals and some of those experiences were the most beautiful memories of musical accomplishment. 

 

I was a lover of romantic pieces.  For those of you who played through the Conservatory, it was the List C and D pieces that I melted into.  The technical pieces were not my cup of tea as my sensitive nature wanted to be in my heart and allow my soul to flow. 

 

Because my mom wanted me to experience all forms of art, I was also heavily involved in dance and had an intense, committed schedule each year to competition and exams.  For some reason dance took over piano and I focused my energy there.

 

I took my Grade 8 exam and then never looked back. 

 

Throughout University I would come back to the piano whenever I came back home.  I would flip through all of my favourite pieces and just play from my heart.  I would watch my fingers remember the flow, remember the depth of emotion...just, remember.  I remember going through an intense break up from my first serious relationship.  To heal, I would play the piano.  I would always come back to the piano.

 

And then, I didn't.

 

When I got sick, really sick, my hands just stopped working.  I could not bend my fingers for  two years.  To write and admit this makes me feel so sad for my precious hands.  These were hands that helped to facilitate healing, yet outwardly, they appeared imperfect.

 

And I was ashamed.

 

Ashamed of the way they curled under, ashamed that I couldn't open a bottle of water, write, tie my shoes, put my socks on.  Ashamed.

 

I took remedies,  I meditated, did healings, contemplated and searched and dug so deep.  Why could I not heal these hands? 

 

And there was a whisper.  A whisper that would come in my dreams, a whisper that would come in my cell memory.  It would come when I listened to Chopin and Debussy and envisioned myself playing out my pain.

 

And then I remembered.  That is exactly what I used to do.  Piano was an outlet.  An outlet for joy.  An outlet for pain . An outlet for the tapestry of emotion that existed in my being.  And it has been stifled for many, many years.  And it was time to come out. 

 

And then the magic happened.  A dear friend and I were walking in the forest and she told me that her daughter was taking piano lessons from the very same teacher I had 18 years ago!  I was in awe, as I often am after a synchronicity connection. But then I realized that i

t was a calling, a sign.  To come back.  To re-connect.  To heal.

 

And two weeks ago, I did.  I went back and remembered.  It was one of the most joyful time of my week.  The piano is my medicine, it is a gift to my heart and soul.

 

In my first lesson back, after 18 years, I looked down at my beautiful crooked hands, with tears in my eyes, grateful.  Grateful for the courage to try again.  Stumbling through the notes, I felt my heart open so wide.  I was home again.  Free to express.  Free to be me.

 

A. xo

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