Slowly everything else is becoming practice, too. Exercising hope when I feel despair. Noticing racism, in systems and in me.
I let myself into the high-ceilinged sanctuary, empty of everything except music. I learned how to practice during those moments. Despite being tucked away in the corner, behind the organ console, Mr. Jones knew I was there. On Sunday mornings his performance swept me away. On Wednesday afternoons I listened to hard work.
When I consider what of my schooling has had enduring value, learning how to practice rises to the top. On the surface practice meant doing scales, memorizing, repeating, all the drudgery necessary to learn a piece. Underneath, though, practice taught me that you always begin by playing poorly.
Jones was. Gaining those skills takes patience, humility, determination. Practice is joyful. For most of my life, the only practice I named as such were the hours I spent at the piano. Gradually writing in my journal and, later, the work of composing poems, essays, and books, emerged in my consciousness as a practice. I slipped into those teachings the same way Mr. Jones slipped into his soft, worn organ shoes.
Jones was a Black man. Should I have mentioned that up front, or not? Ought I mention it at all? I trust the value of practice. These days I only practice piano; I never perform.
