The Spirit of Music

“Youth is wasted on the young.” 

The quote sneaks into my brain once in awhile. I often want to concede to it. But I’ve decided not this week. I believe someone also said, “You’re only as old as you think you are.” That's the maxim I'm subscribing to right now…makes me a little more self-assured.

My husband and I had the pleasure of watching our daughter (and her cohorts) perform at the vocal small group contest for the first time last Saturday. While the pieces weren’t technically perfect, they were pretty darned good—especially for a group of freshman girls. What I found most inspiring was the pluck, the spirit of all these teens! Singing Spanish tra-la-la's to make you smile, or folksy ballads to make you weep. I mean, these kids really felt the music…as did I! There was no rote memorization or forced expressions. Just lovely melodies and harmonies. When that kind of music is made, joy abounds.

It brought back memories. Music was a much bigger part of my life once. Listening. Performing. Sharing. Somewhere between twenty-nine and forty-two, I started to shut off my radio. Playing piano in front of a crowd began to make me nervous. You could say I started thinking like an adult–and really worrying about stuff. 

Turning off the music allowed me to meditate in silence or increase my knowledge by listening to NPR. (Just like my mom!) And silence is healthy—once in awhile. No one would disagree that NPR is engaging and informative. But perhaps, just perhaps I can wander into another channel to grasp a piece of that spirited youth by finding the music once again.

I started playing piano more. Making Alex sing some Norah Jones or Coldplay with me. (She loves that.) And when I accompanied the children’s Mass this week, I enjoyed it for the first time in a long time. No, it wasn't "technically perfect", but I felt the music. I even caught myself smiling a few times. (Who doesn't smile during "This Little Light of Mine"?)

Sometimes, I think God uses our children to help us to find our spirit. Oh goodness. I don’t “think” that. I know He does. My gratitude to my Alex for your voice...and your musical spirit.

Lessons in Piano

my dream piano

When I was a little girl, growing up in Kirkman, a lady of culture moved to our blue collar town. Not only had she formerly been a nun with a college education, but she taught piano lessons. Mrs. LaPorte. Next to my parents, she was one of my most influential figures from my childhood. What I didn't realize is how these piano lessons would stick with me for life. As a matter of fact, they practically...haunt me. Really.

I’m not really sure if I ever had a burning desire to take piano lessons. But when the idea was presented to me in the fourth grade, it certainly spurred my imagination. Me? A musician? Like Barbara Mandrell? Who’d a thought?

My piano teacher taught me to work hard and fostered a deep appreciation for, incredibly, classical music. I love most genres, actually, as long as I can find intricate melodies and harmonies. In high school, I accompanied various choirs and by my senior year, I won an elusive piano contest which had always been a little out of reach for me. Feeling fairly accomplished with my piano career, I was ready to retire the ebony and ivory for a college campus that was calling my name.

My band teacher had another idea. Already accepted to the U of Iowa, she drove me to Iowa City one day and had me audition for a piano scholarship. And despite having no intentions in majoring in music, I could hardly turn down the money. For my first year, at least. But I knew it wasn't really in my heart when I'd just stare at the walls in the practice room and wonder how much longer I should play around on the keys. I gave it up to pursue an English degree. Finally, a retirement from keyboarding was imminent.

Not quite. There was the tortuous wedding circuit. Once I finally extricated myself from that tour of duty, there was a need for accompanists at my kids' Catholic school. How could I not volunteer from that? I'm still doing it. But it has occurred to me that I NEED to retire, because this girl who majored in piano 25 years ago can't seem to discern a G sharp from a G natural or set a decent 3/4 tempo. It really makes me want to hurl when I screw up. That's a sign right? So, just as I was really, really considering the end of my piano career again, something else happened...


Our parish came into a need of accompanists. One organist has vertigo. Another (a young, super-talented musician) announced a move to Des Moines. That leaves us with one. And that a bit of a burden for her. Sigh.

Okay, if there is ever a sign not to give something up, this is it. I won't let my kids give up piano lessons. So, why should I give up playing?


Thank you, Mrs. LaPorte. I do miss you. While you taught me how to play piano, you also taught me much about sharing your gifts. Even if you are a little rusty.