Practice, practice, practice

Lessons from revisiting the piano bench

some beauty from the lakeshore mid-January as the Lake was beginning to freeze

I am back at the library on a Saturday morning, editing a piece I began working on a month ago. My revision process is slow lately, and I am rusty. But it feels fitting to return to this rhythm of carving out time on Saturday mornings with this piece, which is all about practice.

I asked Tim for an upright piano for Christmas, so the week before, he arranged to move one from a neighbor’s home into ours, enlisting some family members to help with the heavy lifting. During the last weeks of December, the piano sat too close to the couch, and we had to squeeze between them to make it back to our Christmas tree, where the piano would eventually live. After the holidays were over, we moved the piano to its more permanent location, next to a window that looks out on the rhododendron bush.

I began learning to play the piano from my mother, who has played her whole life, when I was five or six. I took formal piano lessons for a few years until I was in eighth grade, when my mom finally gave in to my pleas and let me quit. I have regretted it since, wishing I was better at reading sheet music. Wishing I remembered to play more of the songs I had memorized, but only the first few measures of “Für Elise” seem to have made a lasting impact.

Since we moved into our house two years ago, with its small bedrooms and oversized living room, I have said, “This house needs a piano.” Perhaps I wanted to make it feel more like my childhood home, or maybe it was that the large living room felt as thought it were designed to host a large instrument. It made me dream about sitting down to the piano in the evenings as the children dance or play, or while they sit beside me, banging on the keys on their own.

Once the piano arrived, my dreams were forced to become reality, which involve dme actually sitting down to play. To make my first attempt, I pulled out the only bit of sheet music in our house: an old hymnal with a printing date of 1887 and my great-great-grandfather’s name, Horace Kelch, written in pencil on the first page. I flipped open to a hymn familiar from my childhood, “Holy, Holy, Holy,” and tried to play. 

It took me an hour (this is no exaggeration) to play the first four measures on both hands in unison, and immediately I remembered why I quit lessons as a teenager. It is unbelievably frustrating to look at the symbols on the page in front of me, to be able to comprehend what they mean, and still be unable to play them.

Practice, practice, practice. We talk about it all the time, pretending to honor the concept, yet lately, I have considered how little practice I allow myself. The amount of perfection I often demand from myself on the first try, the precision I strive for only to fail and then question my ability.

Playing the piano feels similar to writing, in that I may sit down and know my intent, but must endure an arduous struggle to make it to the end of a session. When writing out my ideas, I type as quickly as my brain works, yet somehow still move too slowly, missing some grand idea I am certain was just there. This is how sitting at the piano feels, except that there is no quickness about my hand movements. I play the treble clef, struggle more to play the bass clef as my brain must translate every note to its corresponding treble note, and then wildly fail to play them together. It took me an hour to play the first four measures of the hymn that first day, and I became hesitant to attempt to read sheet music again. Instead, I spent days simply improvising chord progressions, playing Taylor Swift and old Death Cab songs for my children to dance around to. 

My children: my best reminders that all we are ever doing is practicing. I grind my teeth sometimes through the practice of mothering; bite my tongue to keep from letting my frustration get the best of me as I watch my children practice their own skills. The toddler is working on her words and independence, and when she feels restricted in her practice, she bubbles over into the most pure expression of anger I have ever seen. In those moments, I try to practice my calm, breathing deeply while keeping her safe, holding boundaries while letting her let out her frustration. My older child, too, is practicing independence, but on a different level, and also practicing a whole slew of more complicated lessons that I feel, at times, ill-equipped to guide him through. At times, I feel like I am failing. 

The frustration I feel growing hot in my stomach while sitting in front of the 140-year-old hymn book and this decades-old piano reminds me of why I quit playing all those years ago. But the regret I have felt every year since makes me want to keep trying, makes me want to believe that I can do things imperfectly and call it practice, not failure. It reminds me of the importance of leaving space for practice in other parts of my life. 

I wonder at the pressure we put on ourselves. On each other. On our children. As if we should have this whole living thing figured out. Even after years of practicing the piano, I start over again as a beginner, and I celebrate the opportunity to be so, even if it is through gritted teeth. Only five years into parenting, I realize how much of a beginner I still am. Thirty-six years into being a human, I am still a beginner at navigating the complexities of relationships (aren’t we all?). I am still learning how to compile my thoughts without rambling and how to speak in public without my voice wavering. I will myself to do it all anyway. What a gift to begin again and again and again and again and…

After a week or two of practicing “Holy, Holy, Holy,” I was able to stumble through the whole song. Imperfectly still, but with noticeable progress. After repeatedly filling our house with just one song, I realized it was time to buy some different sheet music.

I found a book entitled “Returning to the Piano,” filled with songs ranging from Beethoven compositions to Broadway hits to Johnny Cash songs, and also picked up a book of Elton John hits and Carole King tunes. I am learning the songs my children have heard me sing to them a cappella their whole lives, and if they weren’t sick of them yet, I imagine they soon will be. While they may become annoyed with the sound of my repetitious practice, I make sure to do it in their presence so that they can know I, too, am just learning.

Finding Hope in Community

On a walk last month, some neighbors and I were discussing how to exist in our current world in a way that is meaningful and supportive of those around us. It is difficult to combat the feelings of overwhelm that pervade as we watch what is happening in our country, as rights and safety are stripped from everyday citizens while billionaires profit and pillage our system. In the midst of everything, one of my neighbors (who is also a small-business owner) emphasized how life-changing it would be if everyone in our small community committed to spending more of their money locally. And it got me thinking: from groceries to skincare to home care, what would it look like if we shifted our spending on a large scale?

Obviously, this is not a new idea, and I imagine that many of us attempt to do some of our purchasing on a local level. It feels almost trite to share “buy local!” as an antidote to what is happening in our country, but I truly believe if we ALL shift our spending, it will be meaningful. Money is meaningful, and where we spend ours collectively is noticed. More so, being connected within our communities is important and more necessary than ever. Supporting our neighbors and local farmers is powerful.

In the months to come, I plan to share the names of local-to-me (in Leelanau County, Michigan) businesses & what I’m stocking my shelves with from them at the end of each newsletter. I hope it inspires you to consider ways you can shift your support as well. Of course this is one small action in a sea of necessary actions, but consider it a starting point, somewhere tangible to begin when it feels difficult to know what to do.

Groceries: Lively NeighborFood Market

Our small village hasn’t had a grocery store since 2018, but last summer, a year-round farmer’s market opened just outside of town called The Lively NeighborFood Market. Everything they sell is local to Michigan, with all of their produce, meat, and dairy coming from farms in the region. We have committed to purchasing our eggs, bread, butter, most of our veggies, and meat (I am vegetarian but my family eats meat) from them. Even in the winter, they have an incredible selection of veggies, including salad greens, onions, garlic, potatoes, kohlrabi, rutabaga, and beets, all grown within a few miles of the market. We’ve been making a lot of tasty stews as a result!

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At the end of 2024, I paused all paid subscriptions for the time being as I reimagine what this space looks like (and catch up on a few months worth of missed essays). I am so grateful to all the people who have offered their financial contributions to support my time here, and plan to offer this again in the future.

For now, I am still working on re-establishing the frequency with which I share here, so it felt best for me to remove the paywall. My hope is to get back into a more consistent routine, and at that point, I plan to unpause the option for subscriptions.

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I wish you a week of practice. Do something you love and let yourself make mistakes.
Cheers,
Mae Stier