Rusty

One year. One year is way too long to be denied music. I sit in class, and hear names and terms, and I know I have heard them before. They float back slowly from the dim recesses of my brain. I look at a score, and I read the notes, and my fingers stumble across the keyboard to catch up with my eyes. I sing a line, and have to think the rhythms - how could I have gotten *so* out of shape in such a short time! Sight singing? Yikes!

I scramble to get it back. Too bad I can't just whack my brain with a pipe and knock the rust and sediment off the tubes like you do with plumbing. This will take WORK! How easy it is to listen to great music performed by others and think you are OK. But without the doing . . .

My arms ache from the hours at the keyboard, my head hurts from reading so much, my throat is dry from singing, torturing myself in a tiny practice room. It is like forcing yourself to get up and move after surgery. It hurts, but it is the only way to make progress and get up to speed again. In spite of the schedule, I find myself wishing I could do this every day. I have yet to see any progress, but I know it will come.

Two weeks is not long enough. Two weeks will never satisfy. That's why I am returning to a job where music can be part of my life again. I am already telling myself to hold back and not overcommit. I would be involved every day of the week with sacred music if it were possible. I know I cannot. At least not right now. Maybe someday. Or at least when I get to heaven. Or when my children finally move away. (-:

As for tonight, this little interlude is coming to an end, and I must return to read the final assigned chapter, run over the alto parts for Josquin (I haven't sung alto in awhile), and then to prayers. So I bid you adieu for the evening, and wish you sweet dreams. As for me, I hope I dream a symphony. Or at least a piano concerto!