I've been taking piano lessons for four months now. I last took lessons when I was twelve, thirty-eight-years ago. Thirty-eight. When I started up in March I remembered more than I thought I might and yet could drive a giant piano truck through the holes left in my knowledge. I practiced. I tried.
In early May I injured my thumb by dropping a twenty-pound bag of ice on it, while preparing for Bob's birthday party. Two weeks later, I was to have played at a recital at my nineteen-year-old teacher, Audrey's house along with her kindergarten and first grade students. My thumb kept me out. I was disappointed. I wore my thumb brace-thing for a week or so and then kept on practicing.
Four weeks ago I started learning Beethoven's Sonata No. 8 Op. 13, called Pathetique. As I started learning, "Pathetique" kept to its name. My efforts were indeed, pathetique. Two weeks ago, I got the time of my lesson wrong and missed it. Pathetique. I kept practicing. Last week, I got the location of my lesson wrong and missed it. Pathetique. I still practiced. It seemed no better.
Just this morning, while practicing, something finally clicked. I can now play the song straight through, no glaring mistakes, no cursing. This afternoon, I have another lesson. I know where and when. I will be there. I pray my nerves won't get the better of me and that I will be able to play the song for Audrey the way I know I can. Perhaps less pathetique.
