In the summer of 2003, we moved from Boston to Albuquerque, both a cross-country and a cross-cultural shift.

Our collective nervous system is shot, fried, spent.

Sometimes it seems like all I do, all day, every day, is count things.

We all have our sacred places in this world; Georgia O’Keeffe’s house in Abiquiu is one of mine.

I went to Vienna in search of a flower shop.

In studio performance classes we have a practice called “performance goals.”

Every morning in Vienna we woke up to the bells of St Stephen’s Cathedral.

Once, a dozen years ago, we spent a miserable weekend in the Cotswolds.

Every August of my childhood, my family would take a two-week vacation to Colorado.

In front of our house is a huge prickly pear cactus.

This week I was teaching a pre-Impressionist piece to Sophie.

Before leaving the country in September, I tried to leave behind a trail of breadcrumbs so I could—without much effort or difficulty—find my way back into my work and practices when I returned.

There goes another day, I think as the last student slams the door behind him.

Twenty years later, I still remember this.

If there is a *, I totally memorized it. If there is a x, I did some.

Recently I overheard two people greeting one another in the grocery store.

Felix likes snails. A lot.

Recently a student missed a lesson without notice.

Much of the time what my students really need from me is not great pedagogy or complicated techniques…

While I am convinced kids don’t really need gimmicks in order to enjoy piano lessons, they do love the Chip Game.