"The room."
A long interlude.
And there I saw the seed upon the mountain
but it was not a seed it was a star
but it was not a star it was a world
but it was not a world it was a god
but it was not a god it was laughter
—Conrad Aiken11 JANUARY—Confining was too generous a word to describe it. The windowless room was smaller than a jail cell and contained only a piano and a bench. Overhead, two fluorescent bulbs offered cold illumination. I had been sitting at the piano for two hours practicing scales, arpeggios, and finger exercises, something by Bach—a prelude or fugue—a Chopin polonaise, and Béla Bartók’s modernist celebration of the Hungarian folk tune, Allegro barbaro—a crashing mad caper of a composition.
It was the same repertoire I’d practiced the day before and the day before that, over and over again, perfecting timing and phrasing and committing long passages to memory. I was in my first year at a small community college in Idaho, where I was majoring in music.
Music was a joy and a heartache, a triumph and a frustration. Sitting in that claustrophobic room in the depths of winter, I began to feel I was going mad.
The concluding chords of Allegro barbaro are preceded by a two-octave scale run—played with both hands simultaneously and in octaves. I’d been practicing the section without rest for at least half an hour when I stopped suddenly to consider what I was doing. And to wonder why.
It takes skill, precision, and strength to play Allegro barbaro, and I was close to mastering it. There was joy in the accomplishment. But I felt myself nearing the edge of my musical capabilities: Virtuosity on the piano was not within my reach. No matter how much I practiced, I would never be able to play the third movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata—I could not even imagine trying.
Bartók broke me. Or perhaps it was disappointment and longing and loneliness. I will never forget wondering: Why am I spending hours practicing music that is not even my own—compositions that are the creative expressions of others?
I gathered my books, walked out of the room, and dropped out of school.
* * *
Forty-four years later I stood in a very different room, studying five stained glass windows that encircle the apse of Battell Chapel in the village of Norfolk, where I now spend part of the year. Designed by Louis Comfort Tiffany, the windows are renowned for their jewel-like palette.
Attached to the chapel is a modern addition that serves as a community center—a wing with offices, meeting rooms, and downstairs a kitchen. I rent a small space there that is my art studio. Seeking inspiration on the day I describe, I had wandered down the hall to the chapel.
Turning away from a consideration of Tiffany’s striking creations, my eye was caught for the first time by the site of a piano sitting in the shadows—a very fine upright Yamaha. How had I missed it before?
Within the hour I had sought and gained permission to play it. And so, in the early mornings when the building is empty, I began to practice. It was at first sadly comical as my fingers tripped and stumbled over the keyboard. But slowly, slowly something like music began to fill the space around me.
I started to appreciate the beauty and meditative absorption of simple finger exercises. Unexpectedly, I discovered little difference between sitting on a cushion meditating and sitting at the piano—excellence at both requires a balance between concentrated focus and relaxation as the discursive mind quiets and the ego recedes. Music, I realized for the first time, is a spiritual path and practice—or it certainly can be.
It is winter now and the chapel is kept at fifty degrees. Dressed in layers and wrapped in blankets, I practice scales, arpeggios, and finger exercises, Bach preludes and the Moonlight Sonata—third movement. I am sixty-two years old now and in some ways braver than I was at eighteen. With another chance at playing the piano I decided to give it a try.
The tempo of Beethoven’s third movement is presto agitato—it is meant to be played rapidly and with great excitement. I play it slowly and rather poorly but with great delight. To play even a few measures of an exquisite piece of music is enough—sufficient in every sense.
And a very good thing. My fingers cannot reach some of the keys, and so I am unable to play it as composed. I do not mind.
Playing Moonlight Sonata, I find that it is not after all Beethoven’s composition. Or, it is and is not. It is his and mine and all of ours. He was a conduit—as, indeed, we all are—bringing into the world one facet of a great mystery—divinity for the faithful—the light of a star.
Oh! And I am playing Bartók again.
And I was in a room without a window
but it was not a room it was music
but it was not music it was delight
but it was not delight it was my heart
but it was not my heart it was rigpa*
—C.M. after C.A.* Sanskrit: pristine awareness, the ground of all.