I woke up early but did not go to the academy today. It’s early morn and the silence called for music. I just finished memorizing Fur Elise (for the nth time) last night, but it didn’t feel right to play it, replay it that hour. Ballad for Adeline, I thought. The light sound of the piece would linger nicely in the morning. I relearned the piece in an hour.
It has been about seven years since my last piano lesson in high school. Ballad for Adeline was the last recital piece I studied. After that year, I stopped playing piano – pretty much the entire seven years. Relearning the piece reminded me of how much difficulty I probably gave my late teacher. It was a time I’d rather go out with friends than play the same piece over and over again. This morning, seeing the music sheet (a photocopy of my teacher’s hand written score) made me laugh. Ridiculous. It was an easy piece. How could I have given my teacher such a hard time then.
I thought my piano skills are already rusty. Apparently, my muscle memory has not failed me. I wonder if I trust myself too little.
How does trust work?
It’s easy to say you trust someone. You lend him a pen because you know he’ll return it to you. You lend him a hand, he’ll return the favor. But lending is different from entrusting. You entrust him your heart, he says he will care for it. You entrust him your future, he promises to make you happy. In both, what’s difficult is the anticipation. The moment you let the words “I trust you” slip from your mouth sets a ticking bomb to your patience wick. You have to remember that the reciprocation of your trust will not be given the moment you say it. It will take time. You just got to trust the person that your sentiment will not be unrequited.
Hello, you said expectation is unnecessary. But trust is crucial. I trust you’ll come back.
A good friend told me expectation is unnecessary. But trust is crucial. Trust with volition entails anticipation, waiting that can test your patience. Non-volitional trust, on the other hand, happens when you’ve been together for a really long time.
I’d like to believe that I learned something from my piano teacher. I’d like to believe I really did learn how to play piano a long time ago. And like a seedling that I left behind, it eventually bloomed when I came back. It became more beautiful than before because there was longing, there was a chase, there was a need to go back and close the space between me and what I left behind. I found myself wanting to touch the black and white keys more. Unlike seven years ago, I now found Ballad For Adeline easier to play – a non-volitional trust between me and my muscle memory of playing. My memory, my knowledge of it did not fail me. I should trust myself more.