Sunday, April 10, 2011
A little background info. about me: I grew up with no music lessons, piano, dance, art, etc., or any enrichment otherwise. This next posting is, to me, evidence of the surprising beauty that one gets gifted with in life. Just as there are many downs in our lives, there are also tremendous ups. Given my childhood environment, it is amazing to me--beyond my imagination amazing -- that I am able to post something such as this. Please, I hope you don't see it as bragging as much as it is -- for me-- awe coupled with sheer grateful disbelief, though it stares me right in the eyes. Yes, parts of my life have been very, very hard: but I have emerged with such blessings.
The sounds reach me upstairs, but I still can't believe it. My brain tries to talk me out of my reality, though I am hearing it through my own ears, in my own home. The sounds are real, but the stories in my soul tell me it can't be so.
As I lay half awake in my bed on an early Sunday morning, I hear our 14 year old son playing the piano that is in our front room. I know it is him, and that it has to be him, he is the only one who plays in our family. My eyes have seen him sit in front of the keys daily. Five years ago a friend of mine had to find a home for her old piano, which turned out to be here. Now, our son plays, and plays. All his favorites: Journey, ColdPlay, Linkin Park, Green Day. I've seen his fingers touch those keys so many times.
But my life's stories tell me this can't be my life. I'm not to be in a life with a home that has a beautiful child playing a piano in it. This is not my life. How does a woman like me, get blessed with a child, a life, like this? A musical child, a musical home, how does it happen? I've never dared to let my dreams get this impossible. Yet, here it is. The wish in me to have the greeting on our answering machine just be him playing is so strong, and I know I can't. We don't brag about our blessings, no matter how unbelievably bursting with pride and joy we are. I'd love to tell everyone, from the bagger at the store, to the stranger at the park, "My son plays piano, I mean, he plays so beautifully!" I know I can't. I know society would not find that acceptable.
Instead, I find myself having to close my eyes, so I can hear every sweet second as clearly as I can, with tears of pride and disbelief springing to my eyes too quickly for me stop them. I don't move, I want him to keep playing. I don't want to walk downstairs just yet.
I might break the spell.
This is the first guest post I ever submitted. It ran early March, last year. It was to a wonderful blog called Four Perspectives. Their Guest Post page is here, if you feel you have something that would fit in with their beautiful collaborative blog. Good Luck!