At Large

We all have a list of things we haven’t done, but muse about. 

“If I just had the time …” 

“If there’s one thing I’d like to do …” 

“It’s on my ‘bucket list’ …” 

Admittedly, some are merely flights of fantasy. Most of us will never climb the Matterhorn, drive a Ferrari at 140 miles per hour, or appear on stage at Carnegie Hall.

But, there’s always the imagined trip.

So, with some bravado, an over-stuffed rollerboard suitcase, and cash for tips, we showed up at Boston’s South Station, ready to step on board an Amtrak train to see the great expanse of America through a rail car window. Coast to coast. Great Lakes, Great Plains, and Rockies. Stops in Chicago and Denver and finally roll into San Francisco. “All aboard!”

Not so fast.

Seems that there was track work near Pittsfield on the first important leg of the adventure, so feeling like many New England “leaf peepers,” we were hustled onto a bus heading through the Berkshires to Albany. We were assured that our train would meet us there. “All luggage under the bus, please.”

It seemed like a very shaky start to the adventure, but realizing there were few alternatives, we clambered aboard and found a window seat toward the back. Just a few hours and we’d catch up with the train and truly be on our way. 

Within moments, down the aisle came a young family with a delightful four-year old who wanted to know if sitting with me would be okay. Of course it would. Having both children and grandchildren, we had abundant memories of traveling with young adventurers and knowing the challenges of plans being instantly changed and the creative requirements for parents to come up with answers to endless questions.

And, we were away.  

To quote Snidely Whiplash, “Foiled again!”

Dad took the first leg of the journey, sitting in the row in front and entertaining his inquisitive son. That left Mom to sit next to me. We had spent a career buckling into airline seats, immediately pulling out the headphones and taking out a book, thereby signaling to fellow passengers that conversation was not an option. About to do the same, the book I was reading appeared and, with it a simple comment from my seatmate. “I’m reading that too. Isn’t it terrific?”

Caught. “The best laid plans of mice and men …”

Our conversation began pleasantly enough, focused on the literary merits of the author (John LeCarre, if you must know) and how beautifully he weaves characters, plot, settings, and historic events. “It’s almost like a symphony – carefully organized around a theme but layered with harmony and counterpoint.” That was my observation, and it opened the floodgates of conversation.

It suddenly became clear that my seat companion was a classically trained musician who had dedicated her life to not only mastering her performance skills but also teaching countless students the mysteries and wonders of the piano. She knew more about music in her little finger than I did in all of my 13 stone.

The hours in the bus, rolling toward our rendezvous with the cross-country train evaporated. With a few targeted questions, she easily peeled back the layers of effectively taking young, eager (and, sometimes not so eager) children not much older than her son and guiding them through the minefields that lie in the way of becoming reasonable, then acceptable, then good then proficient pianists.

Full disclosure

At some point in the discourse, I admitted to having been one of the hordes of kids who hated piano lessons. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to play scales over and over again. I didn’t want to waste my afternoons practicing or going to anxiety-provoking piano lessons while the rest of the neighborhood was outside riding bicycles and playing stickball. I served my sentence until the day my parents, in deep frustration, mumbled something like “Well, if you don’t want to keep taking piano lessons …” My apologies, Friedrich Chopin. No offense, Johann Sebastian Bach. I never looked back. 

My companion smiled, gracefully, and continued to fill the journey with the insight that in retrospect made so much sense it was painful … a life lesson worth sharing, even from this distant remove.

“It’s all in the way you play the first note. Is it expressive? Is it melodic? Is it forceful? Is it subtle? You commit. Then you add the second note …”

A dose of ancient wisdom

Of course. Like anything else in life, the process of learning an instrument or a language or a dance routine or the directions from home to work and back is just that. A process. It takes focus and discipline, eagerness and openness, and patience.

Out the window, the Berkshires gave way to the Hudson Valley and soon enough the skyline of Albany came into view. As we pulled into the reasonably pleasant train station, ready to become “intermodal” as the term is used in the cargo-movement business, it was only proper to thank my teacher for the lesson learned.

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.” Centuries old wisdom from the Tao Te Ching serenely blanketed the afternoon and, lesson learned, we headed off “west toward the sun.”

Play the first note … then the second.