I’m facing an afternoon of rhythms.

“In the year 1936 a writer planted roses.”

Last week I got this postcard from a Little One traveling abroad with her family

Summertime might be my very favorite time of year to teach piano lessons.

“I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills.”

I call them “Practice Sandwiches.”

It was never going to be a typical senior recital.

Last fall I was having breakfast with a friend.

It was Sam's last piano lesson.  

The email from Debbie came out of the blue, a voice from the past

Yesterday, Jake played a little intermediate piece for me in his lesson.

I have often said that teaching Nicholas is more like taking dictation.

In one of the elementary piano method books I teach, there is a piece called “The Answering Machine.”

There is nothing like being backstage to make me wonder why we bother with live performances anymore.

Blink, and already 2022 morphs into a caricature, a cliché of life seen through the distorted lens of so-called normalcy.

Last month, I had breakfast with a friend.

During a recent lesson with a precocious five-year-old, I decided halfway through her playing of Mozart's Allegro that I didn’t want to hear the repeat.

Recently a Little One and I were talking about Halloween.

Max and I were doing an online piano lesson.

Of course, she had a piano, she told me when she called inquiring about lessons.