Mistakes With 'On Yonder Rock Reclining'

After listening to my grandchildren’s piano lessons, I decided to buy a keyboard. I’d played piano through high school and imagined myself playing well again. The mind and finger coordination would be good for my brain. I made inquiries when I returned to India, and on my next visit to the city, in a surge of excitement, I left with a Yamaha in a case and with a stand.

On You Tube, I found my all-time favorite—Swinging Shepherd Blues. Could I learn to play that again? As I watched, a black musician leader of piano, trumpet, bass, and drums, with his sax across his chest, smoothly introduced a young, white, woman jazz flautist, there to play with them at Dizzy’s right before she retired. Giving her a cue, the leader, snapping his fingers softly, had the audience snapping, backing up her single, clear notes hanging over us until each instrumentalist soloed. Then her notes rang above us again. When a voice called out—“Yeah baby”—I softly laughed. Later when I made what I called “my mistake,” I thought back to how much I’d loved the Blues happening, but now knowingly smiled.

Reality changed what my heart was set on the first day I sat at the keyboard. I’d lost finger flexibility. An essential tremor was daunting. I became determined. And the more I practiced the happier I felt as the notes sounded smoother. Where the parts were hard I simply slowed down. Completing the first book I moved to the second.

For months I had too much writing to do and stopped playing, aware of my neglect but doing nothing about it.

Then a change came in an unusual way. I found a photo of a perfect master I felt close to, framed it, and propped it on the music stand. Sitting down I played a song for her. By inner voice, I heard her tell me to play one song each day. On mornings when I made a mistake I began repeating the song until I played it correctly. I realized that this was taking more time and really wasn’t that important, but I had set a goal that seemed to have taken over. Then one morning I played On Yonder Rock Reclining five times—still not correctly—but this time I stopped and looked at the perfect master's photo. “This is about mistakes, isn’t it,” I said, “You’re not going to let me play it perfectly this morning.” And within I felt her slight smile approving.

My realization is, “In a fuller reality (not withstanding the importance of accuracy and perfection) there is room for acceptance without judgment of mistakes and, when they occur, an accompanying good humor.”