All Piano. All The Time.

A true story:

One of my piano families brought me a gift card at the end of the summer semester. As I thanked them, I said something about it being just in time for my birthday. At which Luke (7 years old) said, "Miss Amy, how old are you?"

"How old do you think I am?" (I could tell his mother was horrified by this whole exchange.)

He thought for a bit and then said, "33!”

“Not quite," I said, "but can you do a math problem? What's 33 + 20?"

Again, long thinking pause. "53!!!!!" (There aren't enough bold exclamation points in the world to show his tone of amazement here.)

His mother said, "Yeah, we're all a little surprised by that." 

No one is more surprised than me. 

And then a few weeks ago I got an email from Matey. When I was in high school, I babysat her three girls, and the two older ones—Alexi and M.E.—were the flower girls in my wedding some 31 years ago. I used to sing songs to the girls and taught them actions to go with the words. I would practice the piano while they napped. Alexi is now a pharmacist, M.E. a nurse. They are both married with several kids each.

We have stayed in touch, Matey and I. Matt and I share the same wedding anniversary day —July 23 —that Matey and Paul do. Matey always sends an anniversary card to Matt and me. In return, I always send a holiday card to Paul and Matey.

But the email came as a surprise. There was a photo attached of one of Alexi’s girls—at about the same age Alexi was when she was in my wedding—wearing the old red flower girl dress and holding a violin case. It was charming. And made my head spin a bit.

“You still have the dress?!?!” I wrote back to Matey. “I gave away my wedding dress years ago.”

I’ve been thinking about the things we keep and the things we give away and anniversaries and birthdays and significant numbers of all kinds lately. In the studio we have been doing original compositions titled “The End of Summer.” I suggested that the kids decide how they felt about this seasonal marker, create music to reflect this, and then I’d guess the feeling depicted after they played their composition in their lesson. “You know,” I said, “You might feel sad about the end of summer, or maybe you are excited that fall is coming.” “I don’t know what I’m feeling,” admitted one high school senior. “Ambivalent?” I said.

I feel rather ambivalent myself these days. Or as the Sondheim song goes, “Not going left. Not going right.” This fall marks the 20th year that I have been running a studio out of this house. My ambivalent senior wasn’t even born when I began teaching her older brother that September two decades ago. In the years since then, I have taught all four kids in that family. In August the two middle kids texted me before leaving for college, “Tea?” our studio code word for conversation and connection. Already I am mourning the day when I say goodbye to the youngest, my sweet senior, the last pianist of the family. No need to try to guess the feeling: that will be a sad day. No ambivalence about it.

Years ago, when this current studio was young and green, I had a group of high schoolers that adopted the phrase “All Piano All The Time” (APATT, for short). They would offer this as a response to questions like: “How your week?” “You know, Amy, All Piano All the Time.” Or “What are your plans this weekend?” “All Piano All The Time.” I loved this, of course.

Last month, on the way to Alaska, we spent a couple days in Seattle with Kristen and her young family, one of the original “APATT” kids. One morning, as Matt and I were getting ready to leave for the day, we were comparing our plans. Matt and I were heading to the ferry and Bainbridge Island.

“What does your day look like, Kristen?” I asked.

“You know, All Piano All The Time.”

“But where’s the piano?” Matt asked.

“As it turns out, it’s more a way of life than anything,” Kristen said.

Of course, I really loved that.

All Piano All The Time. Or as the Buddhists would say, “continuous practice.” Yoga. Laps in the pool. Weeding and watering. Piano. Teaching. Writing. Reading. Meditation. Dishes. Laundry. Sweep the floor. Tea. It’s all practice. There is meaning in the doing.

I am ready, both literally and metaphorically, for original compositions about autumn—falling leaves and pumpkins, the smell of roasted green chile and Halloween costumes, bowls of soup and pots of tea—and all the conversations with students—young and old, current and former—about the next season of our lives.