Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. The sound of my heartbeat echoes through my ears as I walk onstage. This will be the biggest stage I’ve ever performed on. This will be my biggest moment. It is nerve-racking. I smile as I look into the crowd, knowing how far I have come. After all, it does take years of practice to make it to Carnegie Hall.
Seven years ago, I walked into my first-ever piano class. I remember looking at the notes on the pages of music scores, not knowing if they would ever become familiar to me. They all looked the same, yet each type of note had vast meaning behind it. I didn’t think I was ever going to recognize these symbols as my friends. Setting my shaky fingers on the keys, I wondered if learning such a grand instrument was even possible. Yet, as I dropped my finger to play the first note, I somehow felt it was.
Over time, I gradually got better and better. I was progressing at a nice speed. Not only were these notes and symbols becoming more and more familiar, but they started to form a space in my brain that was reserved only for them. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed as if I were backpedaling. It would take me months to play my old songs perfectly, and it looked like I hadn’t been practicing at all. Once, my teacher got so frustrated that he stormed out of the classroom. At this point, I wasn’t even sure I was practicing. “Just because you’re sitting at the piano and playing the notes doesn’t mean you’re actually practicing. You have to put your heart into it. Focus on playing the notes right or getting your posture perfect, then think of other things like your friends and fun when you’re done,” my teacher told me. “Focus on different things every day. We could try perfecting your posture today and your dynamics tomorrow. We’ll take baby steps now, but soon you’ll be taking the big steps on your own.” I had no idea what he meant, but I believed him.
From that day forward, I thought things could only get better. I thought that with this new information I could progress faster. I thought playing piano was like growing up; the new information was my food and I was eating it up to get taller, or better every day. But the problem was that I wasn’t. I wasn’t getting any better. I was going in circles without realizing it and I didn’t know how to stop. Slowly, I realized something. I wanted to give up.
Wanting to give up was one of the worst feelings I ever had. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, but I felt like I had to. I wasn’t getting better, and I thought I was getting worse. I was stuck in a loop of mistakes and desperately wanted to get out. I thought giving up was the only way out. It was like a helping hand, reaching out and begging me to come forward, to accept it. It was almost like the only pail of water in a dry desert. Almost. That’s when I saw it. Another pail. Another method. Another way out of the endless loop I was stuck in. Practice.
Remembering my teacher’s advice, I practiced. Instead of just eating it up like I did before, I used the information to my advantage, improving my skills and fixing my mistakes. I was playing like I never had before, fingers flying across the keys, racing to reach the next one. Our house was soon filled with the sounds of symphonies rather than failed science experiments. My confidence was starting to rise along with my ability. I was participating in so many competitions that I was starting to forget which ones I’d been in. My most recent one took me to Carnegie Hall. Sitting at that piano, smiling as I played, knowing the journey that had taken me there, I felt accomplished. Now I realize that learning piano isn’t just like growing up. Other than understanding the information given to me, I needed to use it. Use it in my practice. Use it in my playing. Use it in real life, even. Walking off the biggest stage I ever performed on, I knew that’s what I had done.
Seven years ago, I walked into my first-ever piano class. I remember looking at the notes on the pages of music scores, not knowing if they would ever become familiar to me. They all looked the same, yet each type of note had vast meaning behind it. I didn’t think I was ever going to recognize these symbols as my friends. Setting my shaky fingers on the keys, I wondered if learning such a grand instrument was even possible. Yet, as I dropped my finger to play the first note, I somehow felt it was.
Over time, I gradually got better and better. I was progressing at a nice speed. Not only were these notes and symbols becoming more and more familiar, but they started to form a space in my brain that was reserved only for them. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed as if I were backpedaling. It would take me months to play my old songs perfectly, and it looked like I hadn’t been practicing at all. Once, my teacher got so frustrated that he stormed out of the classroom. At this point, I wasn’t even sure I was practicing. “Just because you’re sitting at the piano and playing the notes doesn’t mean you’re actually practicing. You have to put your heart into it. Focus on playing the notes right or getting your posture perfect, then think of other things like your friends and fun when you’re done,” my teacher told me. “Focus on different things every day. We could try perfecting your posture today and your dynamics tomorrow. We’ll take baby steps now, but soon you’ll be taking the big steps on your own.” I had no idea what he meant, but I believed him.
From that day forward, I thought things could only get better. I thought that with this new information I could progress faster. I thought playing piano was like growing up; the new information was my food and I was eating it up to get taller, or better every day. But the problem was that I wasn’t. I wasn’t getting any better. I was going in circles without realizing it and I didn’t know how to stop. Slowly, I realized something. I wanted to give up.
Wanting to give up was one of the worst feelings I ever had. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, but I felt like I had to. I wasn’t getting better, and I thought I was getting worse. I was stuck in a loop of mistakes and desperately wanted to get out. I thought giving up was the only way out. It was like a helping hand, reaching out and begging me to come forward, to accept it. It was almost like the only pail of water in a dry desert. Almost. That’s when I saw it. Another pail. Another method. Another way out of the endless loop I was stuck in. Practice.
Remembering my teacher’s advice, I practiced. Instead of just eating it up like I did before, I used the information to my advantage, improving my skills and fixing my mistakes. I was playing like I never had before, fingers flying across the keys, racing to reach the next one. Our house was soon filled with the sounds of symphonies rather than failed science experiments. My confidence was starting to rise along with my ability. I was participating in so many competitions that I was starting to forget which ones I’d been in. My most recent one took me to Carnegie Hall. Sitting at that piano, smiling as I played, knowing the journey that had taken me there, I felt accomplished. Now I realize that learning piano isn’t just like growing up. Other than understanding the information given to me, I needed to use it. Use it in my practice. Use it in my playing. Use it in real life, even. Walking off the biggest stage I ever performed on, I knew that’s what I had done.
