Prelude in C
by Alice Lowe



 
Every morning—after my fresh-squeezed orange juice and vitamins, two cups of coffee, toast and fruit; after I finish the Sudoku and the Times crossword puzzle, my limbering-up exercises and five-mile power walk—I enter my study, full of energy, ready to get to work. And there I’m confronted by alluring alternatives that vie, like jealous siblings or American Idol contestants, for my time, energy and devotion.
 
My workroom is a cheerful alcove with windows on three sides that juts out from the back of the house. My desk—a prized relic given to me by a friend whose father built it for her when she was in high school forty years ago—sits on the right under a west-facing window. Beside it are sliding-glass doors that open onto a sunny deck filled with potted succulents and ringed by rangy palms and eucalyptus in the adjacent canyon. My laptop computer perches in the corner of the desk. Papers, files and books are nested around it, everything at arm’s reach as I settle into my wheeled cherry-red Ikea chair. My eyes drift up to a cloudless sky. Crows bicker and finches twitter in the eucalyptus branches. I flex my long, supple fingers, line them up at their designated stations on the keyboard, and will them into action. Sometimes they seem autonomous, and I look on in wonder as they combine letters into words, words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs. Other times we’re united in creative struggle.

My piano is an artifact that goes back forty year too. A hundred of these small spinets were produced each year by a local music store for a children’s piano festival. After group lessons and practice sessions, two hundred children—four hands to a piano—would bang away in near-unison on an outdoor stage, their proud families cheering in the stands. The store would then sell—marked way down—the seldom if not gently used instruments. I had played in the festival in my youth, so it was a joyful day when my eight-year-old daughter participated. I bought one of the pianos to encourage her continued artistry, but her interest peaked and plummeted in a short space of time. Now the piano occupies the east-facing opposite wall from my desk. Sheet music crowds the music stand, and framed family photos—my daughter and grandson, myself at age ten in my first solo piano recital—sit on top. The morning sun streams in through a high window as I sit down and scoot the bench up close to the keyboard. I stretch out my nimble fingers, spanning over two octaves. I take a deep breath, narrow my eyes, and focus on the loose pages in front of me. Bach's Prelude in C. I wait for my hands to translate the obscure hieroglyphics into music, to bypass my brain’s painful efforts at comprehension.
 
Words and music, a sublime pairing. I thought these two pleasurable pursuits would complement each other, but it hasn’t happened that way. You’ve heard of the rack, that archaic torture device that pulls its victim in two directions at once? That’s how it feels. It never occurred to me that they would oppose one another, yet that's what has happened. Literally. When I write, my back is to the piano. When I play the piano, my back is to the desk.
 
As a child I was accomplished in both. I wrote poems and stories, had columns with my byline in both school and community newspapers. I thought I would become a journalist . . . or a pianist! I played in concerts and competitions, basked in family praise and public accolades. My future looked promising until, as a rebellious teenager, I succumbed to hormones. Temporary insanity. I abandoned non-required writing and quit piano lessons, closing the lid resoundingly on the potential of both paths. “You’ll regret it,” my parents and teachers said. Of course they were right, but nothing could have changed my mind or prevented my mutiny.
 
As an adult, having seen the error of my ways, I tried at various times to recapture both talents—a creative writing class here, piano lessons there—scribbling or plunking to no avail. I wasn’t willing to commit the time and effort needed to get past the initial period of struggle, and I wasn’t able to rediscover the ease or the pleasure of either. Throughout my working life, music and literature were passive pursuits. I read a lot, listened to CDs and attended concerts.
 
When retirement appeared on the horizon, I thought, Now, at last! Without distractions and with time at my disposal, I would live in harmony with my words and music. Instead it became a contest—dueling banjos, or more accurately, clashing keyboards. I sought equilibrium, a formula that would enable me to balance the two, but I had to concede defeat. Maybe I waited too long; maybe I’m too single-focused, unable to divide my energy. Writing—the more compelling urge—came to dominate my newly-liberated hours.
 
The piano sits across the room—I still feel its tug, an invisible arm that reaches across the room, yanks my collar. I haven’t given up the dream of once again making music; its absence creates a hole in my soul. Now and then I yield to its charms, turn left instead of right when I come into the room. “Bach for Beginners” sits at the ready on the music stand, but I stumble over the simplest passages. My brain and fingers don't speak the same language. Bach deserves better. I close the lid, muffling its rich warm tones. I’ll keep trying until its call becomes more insistent and I’m able to rise to the challenge.
 
 
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