Piano Practice

There is something to learn from learning the piano as an adult.  It is most likely too late in life to become good enough for Carnegie Hall.  And it is certainly a time of life where hours and hours of practice are simply not possible.  In fact, once one takes into account a very busy work schedule and that undeniable sense of fatigue at the end of the day, it is amazing I practice at all.  Actually, for my last piano lesson I didn't -- practice at all, that is.  Except for the few odd minutes at the keyboard while waiting for a meal to cook.  So... while driving to my lesson, I did what most men are particularly talented at.  I searched for some excuses.  Not just one excuse, but excuses.

The first excuse was easy.  I had been traveling.  Not only had I been traveling, but I had been to Arizona and New Mexico before heading back to Atlanta.  I was thinking of throwing in a related excuse and mentioning that I had gotten some desert dust in my eyes in New Mexico, but decided against it.  It is never good to appear too pathetic.

The second excuse suddenly hit me -- fortunately only in a metaphorical sense, since I was driving.  The mot du jour would be "dabble."  Not only does the word have a certain breezy sound to it -- try saying it quickly five times in a row -- but it was the TRUTH!

Oh yes, I have been taking piano lessons for about ten years now.  But I have not been practicing that much for those lessons.  I have learned a fair amount, for sure.  But I could have learned so much more if I had not dabbled.  I dabble at learning the piano.  But -- and here was the sudden insight that metaphorically hit me while driving -- it is not necessarily bad to dabble.

We cannot excel at everything.  We do not have the time to excel at everything.  And it is just as well, because we would than fail to excel at being humble.  Adult piano lessons are not about excelling.  They are about adding something of balance to one's life.  They help one understand music better, enjoy music better.  They enrich the mind.  They lend cultural depth in an electronic instant world.

I was set.  I sat down at the piano, and explained to my teacher that I had been traveling, so had not had a chance to practice.  Then, after a subtle but calculated pause, I added that what what I was really doing was dabbling at the piano.  I mentioned the way it added a certain balance to my life. 

She nodded wisely and agreed wholeheartedly.

I have a terrific teacher, don't I?

Originally published July 4, 2009.

My Mum

Stella Rose, my mother, and one of my very best friends, left for Angel Land on Monday, Dec 1, just  over three weeks short of her 83rd birthday.

I am going to miss you a lot, Mum...all the wonderful phone conversations...all the silliness...and your gentle but deep insights into people and into life itself.  You are going to be a terrific angel, though, I suspect, one of the more mischievous angels.  Heaven is a beautiful place.  It is also wonderful fun.

"There's a better home awaiting,
In the sky Lord, in the sky."

Originally published Dec. 3, 2008.

My Brother

My brother died last week.  He led a hard life and had been sick for a long time.  I shed tears at his passing, and I send forth smiles at the knowledge that has woken up in a better world.  One day we shall meet again, Michael.  Little brother, I have written this poem for you.

My Brother's Journey

Life's journey is a mystery,
Winding path to heaven's love.
Our lives are each a story
Which ends far up above.

My brother's path led downwards,
Down to years of pain.
His steps were merely shuffles.
The road  was dark with rain.

Yet deep within his spirit,
His fire was carefully kept.
His love, his passion, glowing,
His brilliance merely slept.

Today his eyes do sparkle,
His mind is filled with fun.
He walks that world where all shall go,
The paths of angel-land.

    Patrick Alan Rose,  Nov 25, 2008

Originally published Nov. 25, 2008.

Sinuses and Foreign Heads of State

Last week I went to an ENT for a problem with a sinus infection  As I walked into the office of this new doctor, I was blithely unaware of the potentially international significance of my two innocent-looking nostrils.  Soon, though, I was asked to sign the Notice of Privacy Practices of this Ear, Nose & Throat Clinic.  Listed were the many circumstances in which they would be permitted to release my Individually Identifiable Health Information ((IIHI).  Yes, you may have guessed it!  They are allowed to release information about my nostrils "in order to protect . . . foreign heads of state."

Nostrils may be small seemingly insignificant orifices.  They may produce unpleasant discharge (sinuses not overly terrific, or S.N.O.T).  But who would have guessed that they have their own small place to play in international affairs?

Originally published Nov. 25, 2008.

Ballet and Parking Lots

I did not start going to the ballet until late into my forties.  It seemed like something to avoid.  My sister had had ballet lessons.  My daughter had had ballet lessons.  Ballet seemed like an alien feminine pursuit, something to be ignored.  I don't even remember how or why I first went to a ballet, but wow!  We were living in Cincinnati at the time, and the Cincinnati Ballet was exceptional.  I was hooked.  These people floated through the air.  They painted scenes with motion instead of pigments.  They sang with their bodies.

Ballet is not as popular as, say, [fill in the blank].  The people that go to ballet are not just any people.  They have been captured by the magic of a gentle world.  And this was obvious after we left.  The parking garage was awfully badly designed, and very hard to get out of.  Yet, there was no aggressive garage-exiting.  People were polite, and polite beyond anything one might ever see elsewhere.  They waited for their turn to merge into the one lane heading out of the one exit.

Politeness is something kind and human and gracious and civilized.  Politeness behind the wheel was a fitting postscript to the gentleness of dance.

Originally published May 15, 2008.

He Sits

One of my cats sits next to me.  He sits and he is warm and quiet.  He and I are comfortable together.  We know each other.  I have had him since he was a kitten, and he is almost eight years old now.

I suppose it is this sense of belonging, of shared experience, that makes us part of one family.  Even though our experiences of this relationship must surely be very different, still, I am his owner and he is my cat.  And it feels good.

Originally published May 13, 2008.

I am in the process now of transferring my blog from TypePad back to here  -- to save money.  Why not?

I am going to be copying over the best of my old posts.