Yesterday, I played piano for the first time in years.  It was strange.

We have a Yamaha electric with full 88 weighted keys that’s been hanging out in our spare bedroom (i.e., junk room).  Randy cleaned that room up yesterday so you could actually walk into it without worrying about getting snakebit.  Nice.

I opened one of my favorite classical books and the notes just looked like dots and lines.  Very unsettling, knowing how many years I played these familiar pieces, yet I felt like I was trying to read Chinese.  I couldn’t even figure out where to place my hands at first but, like dusting cobwebs away, things slowly started to come back to me.  Make no mistake, I played horribly, but the longer I did it, the more I remembered.  Of course I still struggled the entire time.  I remembered the feelings I used to have when playing, though.  Comforting feelings…gratification…the way it felt when I used music and art as an escape.

Might need to revisit this part of my past more often.