When I sit down at a Steinway, in front of an audience of a thousand people, some of whom have paid more than a hundred and fifty dollars to see me play, there are many things on my mind. The best teachers tell me to forget everything. They tell me to forget everything but the music I’m about to play.

The more interesting instructors tell me to think about the first time the piece was played, like that’s supposed to give me a fresh perspective. By this point, I’ve played that piece thousands of times. I’ve hammered it into my skull until I can play it in my sleep. It’s not as amusing as it sounds.

I step out onto the stage in the same way, whether it’s the first time I’ve played, or the hundredth, or whether I’m playing at Carnegie, or my studio. The same hint of fear seeps into my blood, and reminds me that there are eyes watching.

And that’s the challenge.

I’m not afraid of the piano. A Steinway has never hurt anyone; it’s far too beautiful to do that. I’m not afraid of what I could do, or what I’ve done. I’m not even really afraid of making a mistake.

I’m afraid because, every time I step onto the stage and sit down at the piano and place my fingers on the keys, I’m making a statement: a statement about reality, about my beliefs, about what beauty is and is not. Carving sound from silence utters a declaration about who I am—and from that emerges a declaration about the rest of life.

Early on as a pianist, I fell into the emblematic dream of standing naked in front of a crowd. I felt ashamed to admit I’d had it, but dreams exist to help you understand reality, and there was no other way for my mind to communicate this fear to me. Walking onto a stage and making your beliefs public reveals your fears. It exposes your hopes. It emphasizes your flaws, and accentuates your imperfections.

My instructor was one of the best. He encouraged me to forget everything, and just play. But I was never able to do that. I’m sure he realized that I failed to follow his instructions, even though I lied plenty of times. A couple of times, I was almost sure he believed me.

But the last time, I couldn’t escape the eyes; I couldn’t escape the audience. I couldn’t escape my family, or my friends. It was like I was living in that dream, that naked dream, except I never woke up.

My instructor must have realized this. I mean, he did realize this, because he tried all kinds of things to try to make me forget. He made me play in the dark, and in broad daylight. He shipped a piano out to the middle of an open field, and made me play there. He placed a piano in the middle of Times Square, and made me play, with all of those damn tourists watching. But none of it helped.

The day approached, just like the day I mentioned earlier: an audience of a thousand people, some of whom had paid more than a hundred and fifty dollars to see me play.

I stepped out onto the stage. My mind tore at me, naked and raw. I saw my instructor behind the curtain, piercing me with his eyes. I waited for him to do something to make it easier for me to play— flip a light off, or pull a curtain. But he didn’t. He just mouthed the words:

“Forget everything.”

I couldn’t.

But I shut my eyes, and started playing.

I felt every eye tear into my mind. Into my ideas, my fears, my hopes. My insecurities, my flaws, my mistakes and grudges. I felt every eye cut deep into me: the eyes of family and friends, the eyes ofstrangers and lovers. They drowned me with their judgment, as I struggled to breathe music into my lungs.

I finished the piece, and held the keys down until the sound faded into the corners of the majestic hall. The roar of applause filled my ears.

I opened my eyes.

And saw that I was absolutely alone.

http://astoryeachday.com/december-29-2014/

In a way you are always alone. Even when you are surrounded by people. That is why you have to be your own best friend. You have to love yourself for what you are and what you do. That is what the story is about.  Learn to play life.

Love, Health And Wisdom

Brian

The mountain in the distance beckons him with its presence. It calls out, in a low and hidden voice that few hear. But he hears it, and it challenges him, with a whisper:

“Climb.”

He looks up at the mountain, uncertain and insecure.

Few have faced it, or even considered attempting to scale the height of this horizon, hewn from the sky itself. Impossible. Foolish. But the impossible scrapes his mind, and he finds himself confusing foolishness with confidence far more than anyone else, and far more than he probably should.

So he decides, one day, that there is only one response to the jagged cliffs of stone and the scathing heights of the massive peak. He can only imagine the view from the summit. But he’s got a good imagination.

It stands, casting a shadow over his home every single day. Finally, one day, he tells his father:

“I’m going to climb that mountain in the distance. The one that rules over the valley, I’m going to climb it.”

His father turns to him, and faces him with a confused and defiant countenance. He doesn’t doubt him, he doesn’t argue with him, or try to dissuade him. He just questions him, in a low, soft whisper:

“Why?”

And although the boy knows that the real reason to climb is to reach for something higher, to discover something that was once unknown, he just answers:

“Because it’s there, and it’s calling me.”

His father shrugs, and shakes his head.

The boy tells his mentor:

“I’m going to climb that mountain in the distance. The one that rules over the valley, I’m going to climb it.”

His mentor nods his head, with a quiet hint of regret, as if he had once sought the same challenge, the same discipline. Finally, he replies, quietly:

“You’re just a boy. Enjoy where you are, what you are, and forget what lies afar. The horizon holds contests that will eat at your mind and tear from you anything else.”

The mentor’s words seep into the boy’s head, like rain into the cracks of an ancient stone. But the beckoning of the mountain was there first.

The boy tells his friend:

“I’m going to climb that mountain in the distance. The one that rules over the valley, I’m going to climb it.”

But his friend laughs:

“You’re foolish. Your words won’t carry you as far as they carry your pride. The mountain is impossible to climb, incredible to summit ––that’s why the mountain is there, and you’re down here. Don’t waste your time.”

The boy bears the burden of these words: the questions, the challenges, the doubts, the uncertainties. Each of them tight and terse, like a rope tying him down to the floor of the valley.

But there lies still a conflict within him.

“It is impossible,” he agrees. “That’s why I have to try. Impossible things are only made of hundreds of attainable things, and each step is just as possible as the step before it.”

He invites each of them, his father, his mentor, his friend, his family members, to watch him as he embarks. He doesn’t carry much––it’s not the accessories that accompany him that will help him reach the summit.

But he gathers a rope, and a coat, and a flag for when he reaches the top. Early in the morning, he tightens the laces of his boots around his feet, and carries himself through the dawn of the valley to the foot of the mountain.

No one comes to see him leave, no one is there to see him off, but he takes no mind. He takes the first step. He believes in it. The first step becomes many steps. He still believes. This is a mission that will complete.

His eyes are ahead.