On Music & Grieving

(I realize that these posts are really long. I'm still learning--how to write prose for an audience, how to edit in blogspot, how to uncomplicate myself... Bear with me, lovers...)

Part of me is still grieving for the lack of music in my life—and no, that’s not a metaphor. Looking through the closet I caught myself thinking, My tuner, why is the tuner not on the piano bench—and then I remembered, with a pang, that I no longer need it. Not even why, but just that simple fact: I am no longer a musician. And it is just like a death. I did the same thing when my grandfather died when I was about 13—caught myself hoping he’d give me a ride home from school. Wondered why we needed to feed the cows every weekend, why his denim jacket was still over the chair, who would open the pool door, then that quiet voice—Oh. Wait. That’s when you remember. And music is a strange thing to lose, because of how it permeates our culture, how much joy and expression I still find in listening to it. I’ve felt a kinship with certain musicians, and like most kids of my generation (or just most kids?), music has gotten me through rough times. I’m not just talking about Alanis and I having angry girl scream-time over a terrible break-up, or Matchbox putting it perfectly:

Music introduced me to art, which introduced me to artists, which introduced me to some ideas:

a) Its normal to feel things deeply, analyze the world around you, and be sensitive and complicated and “emotional” and “touchy”

b) In fact, a lot of people feel this way

c) But are a bit “messed up”, and usually not accepted by the status quo

d) BUT they also make beautiful art. Also, you’ll get along with them.

e) All of this is perfectly okay, maybe not in society’s eyes, but in something higher—whatever made you this way, whatever source this beauty is derived from.

f) Anger & intelligence = depth &also =superattractiveness

There was that. And then there was music. Sounds. Lush sound that filled your ear in perfect interweaving harmonies and always reminded me of moving landscape. I can’t tell you how full my head is when any more than three notes are played, piano or orchestra, keys and chords that swell until light is pouring down behind my eyes. I had only two instrumental pieces for a long time, the Main Titles and Farewell of Spiderman, by Danny Elfman. I still find the synchronicity angelic, perfect rhythms and tempo lull me somewhere between meditation and heaven. Music is one of the few things, that experiencing it never caused me anxiety, and (until now) was never something I associated with my “weaknesses”—in fact, in my own pursuits as a musician, I pushed myself for four years straight. Every time I felt fatigued or achy or plain depressed, I made myself go to practice, stay late at pit, or play at home, memorize the music, cheer at football games, stand up straighter, lift my arms higher and get goddamn better at what I did. It was one of the few areas that, when I made mistakes, I didn’t panic for too long—I was simply happy to be doing what I was doing. I’d remember, each time I slipped up, No girl you’ve done that and it was wrong, remember? And then that was it.

But there was always something missing—I simply couldn’t get myself to pay attention to music at home for more than a half-hour at a time. My fingers lacked some quicksilver-gene, and my tone, while progressing, wasn’t much compared to my fellow section-leader, a “natural”. I know now that if I had just worked a bit more on those solos, maybe I could have graduated to harder and harder pieces, but somewhere along the line I gave up. I can’t stand playing by myself—without a band to play with, without community, music is just less to me. So in a way, I almost shouldn’t be grieving no longer playing my flute. I have no band, no time, and jesus Christ in heaven it makes my shoulders hurt.

But still, I walk past my piano bench and the music is still set out from last summer. I live in the house my grandfather built, sleep next to his bookshelf—This Old Barn, On The Trail With Luis & Clark, Airwar:Terror From the Sky. I cook in the same kitchen we gathered in the morning after he died, a shocked winter, the stovefront empty without his bustling. I suppose I could sell my flute, donate the sheet music, get a new iron skillet and redo the wallpaper… But this living alongside ghosts, is it really holding me back? Isn’t it pain that pushes us forward? How much do I need to keep in the cupboards so that I don’t forget the love and lessons that quiet patriarch and stubborn instrument have shown me?