Laur's Blog, Volume 6: In My Dreams I Still Play

The Sound That Raised Me

I get most of my inspiration from music. I mean, that’s kind of a given, considering the fact that I have played the piano since I was 3. By no means am I good, at least not anymore, but I’ve always understood the capabilities of music itself. Of string. I’ve written about this before, but string is one of the most fascinating things to me; the way it can create vibrations, the way it creates the waves of sound that touch your soul.

Learning the Rules of the Keys

The first song I learned how to play on the piano was "Frère Jacques"; it’s a French nursery rhyme. My mémère taught me how to play it. I was one of her only grandchildren who appreciated her gift, who could comprehend the fundamentals, and more so, the rules of the piano. Rule number one: don’t bang on it. The piano is your friend. It is not to be abused. Rule number two: play delicately. Even the soft touch of a key makes a loud noise. Don’t overdo it. Number three: have fun. Don’t get annoyed if you mess up. It’s a process.

With these fundamentals, learning an instrument wasn’t a chore; it was an art. Once I got it down, I never stopped creating. By the age of 7 or 8, my cousin had gifted me his Yamaha keyboard. I was stoked. It was then that I expanded upon more than just nursery rhymes. I wasn’t just playing anymore. I was mastering the art of the craft. 

The Lesson That Wasn’t

By 11, I decided it was time to take a lesson. I had taught myself how to sound out every song in pop media, along with some French compositions, though I had never had the ability to read sheet music. I wanted to learn.

My piano teacher himself said he didn’t know how to read sheet music, after I filled him in on my dilemma. He asked me to play for him, and I did for a while. He told me there was nothing he could do to help me… But, he could secure me a spot for a performance at Carnegie Hall in New York the upcoming week. I thought he was bullshit. A scam, maybe? Or maybe, just maybe, I was that good.

I went home, told my mom I was quitting, and that I could learn more on my own. She told me to get over my stage fright. I walked away. She was right, but at what cost? The cost of my potential? Of the pianist I could’ve been, could’ve let myself become?

I still played for a while, yet nothing complex. I remember my uncle asking me to learn the song “Rocket Man” by Elton John on the piano. I did. It was then that I became obsessed with Elton John, and I tried to learn pieces of his on the piano. It wasn’t long after, however, that the pain in my wrists spread to my hands.

My Body Changed the Music

It used to just be a click, a crack when I’d flip my arm back, or when I’d readjust what I now know are my joints to hold my pencil properly. By the age of 13, the pain was everywhere. Not just my back, or my wrists, or my neck, or my knees, but everywhere.

I could hardly play, but I still did, for a while; at least until the great collapse of 2024. When I damaged my dominant shoulder, I was at risk of losing everything, every song. For a while, I did. But some of it came back. Only some.

Mourning Her

I should be grateful that it still moves. Yet I can’t help but mourn her; the girl who got over her stage fright, who played for a crowd. The girl who put her perfect pitch to use. The girl who could play.

My favorite song to play by far used to be “Chiquitita” by ABBA. It was fun. The beats were quick, fun, freeing. My fingers slid across the keys carelessly. It was muscle memory. I didn’t have to think, I just had to play.

The Stage I Dream of

In my dreams, sometimes I’m on a stage. There’s a piano in front of me. I look at the full audience. I play with ease. They clap. I bow. I smile. I am fulfilled. I am the pianist I should’ve been. I am the version of myself I couldn’t be.