A Different Route For A While

I faithfully sit at the piano several times a week, reach up, turn on the metronome, and dig in.  It started out in complete frustration.  My inability to remember anything, make sense of everything, when I knew vaguely that it had all, at one time, been the source of so much joy and meaning, both for me and for everyone that came in contact with me, was just crushing.  And then, bit by bit, it started coming back.  I could see that my diligence not only made me happy, but it brought my family joy.  It seemed everyone that had ever known me before asked “how’s the practicing coming?” and just lit up when I told them how I was progressing.

 

But the last few weeks it’s been harder and harder, and today was horrible.  Seems my coordination is slowly and steadily coming back, at least keeping up with the beginning level classical pieces I’m starting to be able to play again.

The giant problem is my dyslexia.  I just can’t read music at all.  Notes seem to be playing practical tricks on me now.  It’s like my brain is an oversized junior high boy, with a not-very sophisticated sense of humor.  “Your leg is cold.”  “No, it’s not.”  “Yes, it is.  (snicker, snicker).”

And with music notes…”That’s an F.”  Next time “That’s an A.”  I can never be sure if it’s my dumb brain trying to fool me, or if it’s actually telling me the truth.

 

I don’t know if, or when, this will change.  No one knows.  I’m on my own here.  So I have to, one more time, come up with a Plan Q.  A different way of existing in the world where piano may, or may not, ever be my “thing.”  But as Scarlett O’Hara said in Gone With the Wind, that terribly flawed depiction of the strength of the human spirit, “Tomorrow is another day.”  So I won’t think about it today.

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