Teaching Little Fingers To Play

A page, yellowed with 40 years, sets in a silver frame on a bookcase in my living room. Its a "Certificate of Merit" with rips and taped borders and a scraggly-edged golden seal that certifies that I completed the piano course, "Teaching Little Fingers To Play", in January of 1968. I was 6 years old. My Grandma Mary signed it in blue ink-pen.

My own "little fingers" are quite a bit bigger now, and bear the wrinkles and scars and imperfections that come with 40-plus years. But I'm gaining the courage lately, at least enough courage to sort out the next steps, so that I can, hopefully, begin to teach piano to some "little fingers" myself. This is an idea I started kicking around in my own mind a few years ago. And I told just enough people that I can't really turn back now. I could, but I don't want to, and the ones I told know me well enough to remind me, gently, that I said I wanted to do this.

Just last night, I sat across a table with an old friend, sharing coffee and stories, and she told me just how we could make it work for her little daughter to be one of my first students.

I love to play the piano. I have no classical chops to speak of, there's a good chance a set of scales would put a cramp in my hands that would send me for the Ben Gay. Yea, its been a few years. The red-pencil marks in my old piano lesson books (I kept them all) tell the tale, I was no prodigy. But somewhere along the way, what was nurtured in me was a simple understanding that by playing the piano, I could express myself, allow for a little peek into my heart, a tiny glimpse of what I sometimes find hard to express when I speak. We all have this in our lives, that bit of joy or peace where we feel like "ah, this is what I love". Playing a sweet melody on the piano is mine. Another Anne Lamott quote ... "how is it you can play one chord, and then another, and then your heart just breaks wide open?". That's what playing the piano does for me. Opens my heart. Wide open.

I've had opportunities to play since that framed certificate was signed. High school, a tiny bit in college, weddings and funerals, and years in a worship band at a church for a good part of my adult life. But a turn in the road a few years ago brought a change that left me wondering if and where and how my love for playing would show itself again.

An experience last fall reminded me of my almost-forgotten "I want to teach" idea. In preparing for a wedding where I was playing with a violinist friend, the music that was chosen was a real challenge for me. I was nervous enough about it that I set aside the intentional time for a month, to practice every night, every morning. I pulled out the metronome, wrote little notes to myself on the sheet music to get me through the hardest parts. And in the middle of all that practicing, I remembered, this is what I love. This is part of who I am.

I took a few baby steps last night, committing to my friend that I would start taking some action. Her daughter has some little fingers that would like to play, and she'd like to have me teach her.

Hope is propelling me forward. I hope I can take some steps and figure out how to teach. I hope I can grow into being a good teacher. I hope I can give years of my life to pursuing this. I hope I can encourage a child to express herself when she plays. I hope, when I am in my 70s, I can be the funky old piano-teacher-lady down the street.

And I hope I can sign a "Certificate of Merit" for some little fingers someday.