Tag Archives: music


It was my grandma who wanted me to become a musician. I don’t recall a time when I wasn’t one. I have always loved to play, to sing. It’s just a form of being for me. I could never be a music major though; I lack that sort of dedication.

The first time I sat at an organ, I was seven years old. I’m not sure who was more apprehensive—me, or the eighty year old teacher that I had no clue how to talk to. I have absolutely no recollection of that first lesson beyond the memory that her house smelled like cats. My house also smelled like cats, so it really wasn’t that bad. I may not fully remember that first teacher, but I do remember what she taught me—chords. 

Chords are the fundamental basis for everything in music. Basic chords contain three or more notes that play together in harmony. Each letter of the musical alphabet from A to G has a wide variety of accompanying chords. Major to minor, sharp to flat, augmented to diminished, fifths, sevenths…the possibilities of chord creation are endless. Knowing the things from an early age not only gave me an ear for music and very good pitch, it allowed me to play basically any song with little effort. Knowing chords gave me a strong musical foundation that I have always been able to fall back on.


Before your class, I had never heard of CNF. I signed up for it because it was required for the major, and because it was writing, and because I didn’t know. I honestly didn’t know what the course was. And it scared me. A lot. You broke my box in so many ways, and you made me a completely different writer. I discovered that I could write that which I couldn’t talk about, and that I could be heard while not being heard. I’m not sure I would have gone to grad school before that class. Or even thought about it, really. Because who goes to grad school to be a writer? Writers. Was I a writer? Before? I’m not sure.

“I don’t want to go to grad school anymore.” I slid the book that we had just finished discussing back towards my backpack.

“Why not?” N frowned, closing her own copy of the book.

“Because I’m not sure I can afford it. Because I don’t know how to choose. Because I don’t know if what I want is what I’m supposed to want. What I want and what I should do are two totally different things.”

“Well, what do you want?” N asked.

“New York,” I replied, without hesitation.  “For reals.”

“What is it that you like about it?”

I thought about this for a moment. “I like that they talk to me.” When she looked at me strangely, I continued, “Well, what I mean is…they aren’t so institutionally. I know who my advisor is; I’ve talked to her. I’ve been able to connect with other students. They signed me up for their social network. I feel like they are very open and friendly. Like what I have here. And I know that I am totally that student who needs a rock…”

“Surprise,” she interrupted. “Because I didn’t know that.”

“Ha ha,” I answered dryly.

“I get it. We have a rapport.  You want that somewhere else.”

“Yeah. I guess. I wish I could know who all of my advisors were. I feel like that’s a thing for me. New York is giving that to me.”

“The thing is, you don’t always know that you’ll have a specific advisor. Sometimes there are program advisors, or general advisors. You may not have one specific person until you are picking who to work with on your thesis. And even then, you might not get who you want. It depends on how many other people request that person, how that person might work with you, et cetera.”

“Yeah,” I replied, ever so eloquently. I stared at the computer screen, at the website I had pulled up.

“You also need to consider where you’re coming out of, the type of writing that the area is producing, what’s coming out. What’s being published.”

“They sent me a list of all the things from last year. The publications.”

“From graduates?”

“Graduates and current students. And a few professors.”

She thought for a moment before saying, “You can’t do something you’ll regret. If you think this is it, then you go. But you can’t get this far and then just not go to grad school because you’re scared. You need to make your own choices.”

The greatest thing I learned from you is that I can write. There isn’t necessarily one formula, one right answer, one right way to do it. There’s a lot of different things, different ways, and writing can fill a space inside.

I don’t know how to do these things, to pick a grad school, to set out on my own, to be this person I have become apart from him. I want to quit. I make excuses. It’s too expensive. I have the cat. I won’t have anywhere to live. I don’t know how to do this.

I will fail.

“Should I continue on or turn back? I wonder, though I knew my answer. I could feel it lodged in my gut: of course I was continuing on. I’d worked too hard to get here to do otherwise.” 

I read the Cheryl Strayed quote again, and again. And then once more for good measure. Because N is right. It is me. I have worked too hard to give up and go nowhere. Just because I am scared. Just because I am a little lost.

Where I am now is my foundation, and I don’t know how to leave that.  I don’t know how to give it up.

I’m scared.

I’ve been hurt a lot, and I’ve wasted a LOT of my life. I’ve let time pass and leave me behind and I don’t want to let that happen anymore—I don’t want to spend more time doing things for other people, or doing things that I don’t LOVE. And I love this.


The hardest piano piece I remember learning to play when I was a kid was “Fur Elise.” I liked sitting down and just playing, and that wasn’t a piece I could simply sit down and play. I didn’t want to practice; I didn’t want to put in the work that would be required of me to accomplish the piece. I wanted to quit. There was an A minor seventh chord that I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to fail.

I had a strong foundation with chords. So I figured them out. And I can still play “Fur Elise” today. There was a large payoff for the work I put in. I can play many things that are harder than “Fur Elise,” and many things that are easier. Because I put the time in. Because I figured it out. Because that foundation didn’t need to be given up. It stayed with me; I built on it.

This too, I will figure out, I will build on. Because I have a strong foundation now, and because I am not willing to walk away.

I can still play that A minor seventh chord to this day.

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Playing the Piano

When I play the piano, I get lost.  Not lost in the physical sense, lost in the mental sense.  It’s just me and all of those glorious keys and a plethora of music at my literal fingertips.  I love that feeling so much, but I hardly ever play anymore.  I’m not sure why.  I’m not sure when I stopped.


I teach piano lessons privately; I have several students of varying ages.  So I sit at the piano several hours a week.  But it’s rare lately for me to actually play it.  There are too many other things that get in the way.  Life is always moving forward, and there’s always something in the back of my mind that is more important.  


When I was a kid, I played all the time.  Of course back then I was playing the organ, not the piano.  There’s a lot more to the organ, in terms of the pedals and all that.  (Though as I recall, I always stubbornly played it as if I was playing a piano.)  I used to buy book upon book of sheet music and try to learn all of the things I could.  It was the only way that I knew to blank out the things in my head, the only thing that actually worked.  The only way to feel something.


Now I’m a writer.  I write all the time, and much of the work I’m doing lately involves connecting to the unpleasant things of the past.  It involves thinking, and that’s a bit all-consuming.  Life itself has been busy, a maze of negotiating for myself and figuring out all things social and worldly.  I’m trying to figure out where I fit, how I can incorporate the me who has been through too many things to number with the me who is smart and clever and strong—the me who knows things.  There is always something coming up, always something being pushed through or climbed over or worked on.  But not today.  For fifteen glorious minutes this afternoon, that was not the case.


Today I picked up a book I haven’t looked through in a while and played through some of my old favorites.  At first I was rusty, but then it was like I had never stopped.  My fingers knew what to do.  And the best part was that I didn’t have to think.  About anything.  I wasn’t thinking about school.  I wasn’t thinking about my classes, or homework.  I wasn’t thinking about the week I’ve had.  I wasn’t thinking about work or my students.  I wasn’t thinking about the ten million other things I had to think about, because I was busy.  I was playing.  I didn’t even think about the notes once I was really going, because there were just too many of them.  I played.  Really played.  I was free.


I remembered today, once again, why I love to play.  When I play, I know one hundred percent what I’m doing.  I don’t have to think.  It’s such a huge part of me that I only hope I can find more time in which to do it.  


I’m worth that much.

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