After almost nine and a half years (she claims it’s been ten), I had my last piano lesson today. It is absolutely ridiculous to think that I’ve been taking lessons on a regular basis for more than half of my life. Through all this time, so little and so much has changed for both of us.
Besides the whole going from eight to (practically) eighteen part, I’m now able to learn probably any piece you put in front of me. When I was first forced to start taking lessons, I don’t think I imagined I would stick with it for so long. I doubt I would have believed that after so many years there could still be something to learn. In some ways, I was right: I don’t think I’ve learned anything technical about the piano in the past three or four years. At some point you will have played each of the 88 notes, seen every possible trill, and even though Ms. Aza insists on defining sotto voce each time it comes up, my Italian is not half bad.
A lot of people ask me why I continued to take lessons past the ninth grade or so. It’s true that for the first five years of my lessons, I absolutely despised the piano and my teacher. I’m incredibly regretful now that I wasted so much time not appreciating my lessons. When I finally learned to love piano and I actually wanted to take lessons, I began to learn about music itself. It was then that I realized that the majority of music has nothing to do with the notes on the page but with what you make of them. I originally believed the musician’s connection with the piano was through the fingers, but it is entirely through the soul.
Ms. Aza and I have come a very long way. It’s almost frightening to think that other than blood relations, there are so few people in my life that I’ve maintained a constant connection with for so long. Even though practically all of our conversations have been through or about music, I’m sure that she knows more about me than some of my good friends. We’ve come from a time when I had to be dragged kicking and screaming to lessons (slight hyperbole) and forced to practice with timers. From a point where my sister and I actually made a movie highlighting everything we couldn’t stand about our teacher. Over time, Ms. Aza mellowed out from her crazy piano teacher days. She’s come from harassing me about my fingers and bringing me to tears to giving me advice about my future with genuine care.
I remember before she was divorced, when she was so excited about getting her new piano (and me being the first student to get a lesson on it!), when her mom moved in with her from Russia, all the times she complained about Americans being lazy and the joys of homeownership. I remember how happy she was when she first showed us pictures of her new grandchildren. After years of being driven to lessons, Ms. Aza’s house was one of the first places I drove to on my own. As she began to treat me less as a student, she would ask me to help her with her new digital camera, to help her move something heavy, to play for her as she went to make herself tea.
It will be a great many years before I can fully comprehend all that Ms. Aza has given and taught me as a teacher and friend. Until then, I imagine there will be a huge emptiness in me every Saturday morning.