My mother introduced me to the piano when she first played “Home Sweet Home” with such gusto and pure immersion that I became mesmerized. We were home in Hong Kong on a sizzling summer day. Anything that would take my mind off the stifling heat indoor without AC was immediately welcome. I was probably five or six years old at the time. I was glued to listening to that piano tune the entire time that mom was playing it, non-stop for probably fifteen minutes or so. Little did I know, I was so into what mom was into that I inadvertently memorized the melody in my head. The lyrical tune wouldn’t leave me. It kept singing and dancing inside my brain over and over as if itching to come out of my body!
The next thing I knew, the minute mom left the piano to make some Chinese tea in the kitchen, I went straight to the ebony Yamaha upright that was big and tall, handsome and inviting. I felt awkward that my feet were dangling on the bench. But as if possessed by this “Home Sweet Home” tune, I put my hands on the keyboard, clueless what’s what. Yet, my right hand began feeling its way and finding the keys that match the melody. After hearing which white key that produces the exact same sound of the melodic line, my middle finger started feeling its way by hitting these notes. As it turns out, they came together nicely that sounded pretty much like “Home Sweet Home”!
Mom heard that and dashed out of the kitchen, saying “Wow, how do you know how to play?” Completely surprised, her tone in Cantonese dialect came across more accusatory to my newfound musical ears. I was slightly scared, afraid that the piano was mom’s instrument, hers only, and I had stepped on it. I apologized.
“I don’t know. I am just trying…the song played itself…”
Mom burst out laughing. Delighted that she’d discovered a budding talent that I’d discovered for myself, she asked: “Do you want to learn how to play?”
“Learning how to play?” I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t want to learn or study more than what I was already doing. I hesitated to say yes but was afraid to say no. “I just want to play…like you.”
“Well, if I didn’t learn it properly, I wouldn’t know how to play now.”
“So, I must learn it properly…just to play?”
“When you learn how to play the piano, you will understand music better. Music will become a part of you. The piano will keep you company when you grow old.”
That unexpected switch to her piano philosophy left a deep impression on me. I was so young and wasn’t thinking much about growing up or growing old. I was so intent on the present. I was so immersed in what would immediately arrest my attention that the concept of learning for the future didn’t quite register. But it did sink in over time.
As I have gotten older, the piano has indeed grown with me. My finger joints have become more rigid, less nimble, and the muscle memory is less fresh and lively. I make more mistakes on the keys, and I take longer to feel the flow of the music. But piano, just like mom said, has grown old with me. It sounds as good as I feel sometimes. But at other times, it is cranky and off-key because it reflects my mood of the moment. It is during these periods of technical struggle that mom’s words would break through especially loud and clear. “Music will become a part of you, and will keep you company when you grow old.” Almost immediately, I tell myself not to master anything, but to become one with it.
Mom was right.