A few weeks ago I sat down at a strange piano, got out a book of unfamiliar music pieces and tried to play. My brain knew what to do but it had forgotten how to communicate with my clumsy fingers as they stumbled across the keys. I left the room feeling sad and a little depressed.
The piano has always played an important part in my life, beginning in junior high and high school when I was either accompanying the choirs or singing. Playing the piano or organ at church was my ticket to avoid having to teach Sunday School classes. Then for eighteen years I sat at the electric keyboard with a group of eight singers who simply got enjoyment out of performing for others.
My skills were never as accomplished as those of my sisters, mostly because I considered the piano to be a tool for my enjoyment, much like my running shoes or cameras are now, or golf clubs are to an avid golfer. It was my hobby. My parents generously provided lessons all through my growing years, lessons that I selfishly took for granted and rarely practiced like I should have.
So why the unexplained yearnings? It makes no sense because I certainly have no desire to play in public or on a stage again. Nevertheless, I often think about having a piano in my home even though the drawers of music are gone and my fingers are very rusty. And I can't see the music without reading glasses. When did that happen?