http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052702304868004577375774238901672.htmlBy DIANE COLE
Wall Street Journal
July 15, 2012
Many a man or woman upon reaching a certain age will splurge on a Ferrari, trade in city life for a new start as a country squire or wed a trophy spouse. My gift to myself was getting back to middle C.
Nine years ago, at age 50, I signed up for piano lessons. Again. I first began playing when I was 8. From then on, music—from Bach to Broadway to the Beatles—filled my days. But as I passed from young adulthood into my 30s and 40s, the only keyboard I found myself using regularly was the one connected to my computer. In my dreams, I still cherished the fantasy of jamming with my two favorite "Arts"—Rubinstein and Tatum. But the reality was, my fingers were rusty.
Then, a couple of years after my husband's death, a music-loving friend had an intuition: returning to the ivories, she said, would be just the thing to help my sagging spirit sing. Call her son's piano teacher, she insisted; you won't regret it.
In Need of a Guide
The very suggestion reminded me of how much I missed playing regularly, from the simple joy of learning a new melody to the physical sensation of letting my fingers scale up and down the keyboard. As a schoolgirl, I had loved to bang out the musical accompaniment to the rock, pop and folk hits of the moment as my friends sang along. The piano had provided solace, too: The bass vibrations had resonated through my entire being, consoling me after my mother's too-early death. Sweetest of all, the tinkly upper notes had tantalized my infant son from the get-go, and as a toddler he reveled in plunking along on his own toy piano.
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As someone who never got far in classical music, I wonder sometimes why we pay for piano lessons for our children, nag them to practice, and spend time ferrying them around. It's not "practical". This story reminds me of the importance of exposing children to things that they can enjoy for a lifetime.
