Yesterday, I was speaking with a few people and stated, “a piano is being delivered to my home as we speak.” One of those individuals, who has worked for me for the past year, asked, “Oh, who plays the piano in your home?”
“Why Me!” I said.
Funny, how someone with whom I work did know that I played piano.
I play the piano. I write songs. I have been in performances with my own works in churches, malls and schools. I can’t sing worth a lick yet I don’t care. I perform my own works.
I learned years ago under the guiding hand of my grandmother, who was a formally trained opera performer. My grandmother and I also played tennis together and traveled the world together.
Upon her need to move into an assisted living home in 2000, I inherited her piano. It was an honor. I planned on teaching my children. I planned on playing every day. Writing more and leveraging piano in my therapy, keynotes and workshops. Upon my homelessness due to bankruptcy in 2002, I lost the piano to another family member.
Yesterday, twelve years later and many miles on the highway of healing and rebuilding, I once again took possession of the piano.
It is beat up. Out of tune and in sad shape. Yet, it’s return to my home signifies how life can come full circle.
Now, what in the hell does life and healing have in store for me as a result of the return of a piano on which I wrote a song that won me a trophy and ribbon and title, Star Search West Suburbs Chicago, 1985?
I guess I will find out.