Written 05/03/2025
Hello Dear Readers,
For my birthday, my wife gave me a pair of gifts—small in size, but mighty in purpose. One was a clever little guide that sits atop the piano keys and tells me which note is which (finally, no more pretending middle C is wherever my finger happens to land). The other? A beginner’s piano book for adults—because apparently, it’s never too late to become a clumsy Beethoven.
Naturally, this led me to the next question: Where on earth do I squeeze piano practice into my already jam-packed schedule of surviving, recovering, and occasionally pretending I don’t need a nap?
Let’s rewind a bit. Back in my younger days, I was a lightning-fast typist. A true child of the digital age, I grew up playing text-based games online, typing as if my life depended on it—probably because it did, at least if I wanted to defeat goblins in under 0.3 seconds. But then came the stroke. And just like that, my typing—and pretty much every other form of movement—hit the reset button.
My right side made a comeback worthy of a sports movie montage. My left side? Eh… not so much. It remained clumsy, uncooperative, and frankly, a little rebellious. Since walking was the first priority, I focused on my legs. Years of effort later, I can now run 10K like someone with a vendetta against gravity. But the hand? Still marching to its own awkward beat.
So I turned to my wife—who’s a piano player and my resident hand-coordination consultant—and asked for a piano book. She lit up like a major chord. I had tried piano before, somewhere around 2018 or 2019, but couldn’t keep it up. Mobility had to come first, and my left hand was still on sabbatical.
Now, with the book in hand (well, mostly right hand), I’m ready to try again. It’s a fresh start. A new project. And we all know the first rule of New Projects Club: Don’t kid yourself. Saying “I’ll just practice whenever I have time” is code for “I’ll definitely forget, then panic, then pretend I never planned this at all.” So I’ve decided piano will follow my shower—clean body, clean mind, slightly damp enthusiasm.
My wife advised me not to launch into a full 30-minute Beethoven marathon right away. “Start small,” she said. “Five to ten minutes. Don’t burn out your fingers or your will to live.” Wise words. The goal is consistency, not concertos.
She also gave me The Talk about posture and form. “No slamming the keys,” she warned. “It’s not a typewriter or a drum.” Apparently, hitting a piano key too hard can cause unwanted vibrations in the other keys—kind of like when one person sneezes in a quiet room and everyone else flinches. She had to unlearn her own bad habits, and she’d really prefer I not repeat them.
So here we are: me, a slightly-used left hand, a piano, and a patient wife. I’m excited. Nervous. Slightly tone-deaf. But excited. Let’s see where this new adventure takes me—hopefully somewhere between “Chopsticks” and Chopin.