When I was younger, from the ages of about 8 to 18, I took piano lessons from an angel of a woman, Shari Aston. I'm not exaggerating at all when I say that Shari teaching me how to play the piano has had a deep and profound influence in all areas of my life, and in ways that I probably am not totally aware. But one way in which I am aware of this influence is in the ways that music, and the playing of it, has helped me through life's difficult moments.
I'm a relatively cheerful, easy-going fellow, so it may surprise some to hear (read) me saying that I have hard times, but it shouldn't. Everyone does, and I'm no exception to that. And in those hard times, I've always found that playing music brings a relief and even joy where it has seemed like there could be none. And I wanted to take a minute to talk (write) about it.
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| My parents' piano at home in Bluffdale, UT |
When I was getting my bachelor's and master's degrees, I was lucky enough to attend school where a large number of the classrooms on campus had pianos in them. So whenever I got stressed over a test or overwhelmed by social pressures or really frustrated at the football or basketball team losing (you know, the big things), I could always go up to campus, find an empty classroom (they were typically open until 11 pm), and play. More often than not I didn't play any of the more difficult pieces I'd learned over the years. Rather, I played whatever felt right in that moment, which was usually something relatively simple. And in doing so, peace, in varying degrees, would return to my life.
One of the hardest things about starting my PhD program was that I was at a new school where I no longer had ready access to a piano on campus. And things got real stressful real fast. So after about a month in the program, I got on Craigslist and bought myself a guitar, knowing that I couldn't reasonably bring a piano (even a free one) home to my drafty, thin-walled, 2nd story apartment. Buying the guitar was a little outside of my budget (most everything was then), but it seemed a worthwhile investment in my mental and emotional health. I had no idea how to play, but I figured I could probably teach myself enough that I might access the stress-relieving aspects of playing music that I needed. And in time I did. And that guitar is one of the many factors that helped me survive those first few years.
When we moved to California after graduating and as I started work, life predictably got stressful in new and *ahem* interesting ways. I still had my guitar and found it helped, but I missed playing the piano regularly as it had been several years since I'd been able to do so. Not long after we moved, I was asked at church if I would play the piano for the Primary. I agreed and began to spend 1-2 hours on Sundays hanging out with kids, pulling faces at them, and trying to play the piano well enough for them to be able to sing along. (I wasn't always successful at that last bit.) Since we don't have a piano at home, I was given a key to the church so that I could practice. And it was wonderful. In playing the piano again more regularly, I could more readily feel life's tensions melt somewhat away. Then, after 6 months or so of playing for the Primary, the organist in the ward moved out, and I was asked if I would play the organ for Sacrament Meeting.
Now, I want to be clear that I don't consider myself a musician. I play alright, the piano at least, but I'm very uncomfortable with playing in front of an audience, no matter how low stakes the setting or how small the audience actually is. And here they wanted me to play the organ, an instrument with which I had very little experience, in front of upwards of 200 people, on a weekly basis? Despite my misgivings, and fully aware of my inadequacy, I agreed. But in doing so I knew that I'd have to start coming over to the church more regularly to practice and get ready for Sundays.
So for about a year (up until the pandemic), I spent 6-10 hours a week at the church teaching myself how to play the organ and practicing so that I could, at very least, not be too much of a distraction from the spirit of the meeting. And while I'm no Richard Elliot (far, far, FAR from it), I got to where I could get by fairly well each week. Well, except for the one week when Shar was out of town, and I bombed so hard on the hymn "For All the Saints" that afterwards a friend in the congregation said to me sympathetically, "As you were starting to play the 5th verse, I leaned over to my husband and said, 'How bad do you think Sam wants to be done right now?'"
But the important thing here isn't that I got better at the organ, the important thing is that this assignment forced me to spend A LOT more time playing music. I started practicing first thing in the morning, before going to campus, and it changed the complexion of my professional life. Those days when I practiced the organ were considerably brighter, more productive, and just overall better, despite the stress and anxiety of feeling like I wasn't (amn't) good enough at my job.
In writing this I'm not trying to brag about how wonderful of a person I am because I can play around a bit on a couple of instruments. If anything, I'm still terribly self-conscious of my musical abilities, and am always a little hesitant to even tell people I play at all for fear that they'll want to actually hear me. But in this season of thanksgiving, I want to express gratitude for the undeserved, unearned, and beautiful gift of music.
Music makes no sense to me. Somehow, by contorting your body in very specific and objectively weird ways, while in appropriate proximity to an awkward assemblage of inanimate objects, a (sometimes) beautiful sound is produced.
And that sound, I've come to appreciate, can be a blessed balm to the soul, especially in times of struggle and difficulty. It somehow manages to wriggle into all of the achy, empty places inside, and it fills them with light and hope. And, well, I think that's really lovely. And I'm grateful for it.
