Between Gregorian and Julian Easter Sundays, I search for atonement and find serenity.
I stole from David and Geoffrey, twin boys I gave piano lessons to. I stole their time, their parents’ money, and possibly whatever musical aspirations they might have entertained. They deserved a better teacher.
Their piano was in the living room. I loved that room. It had both the warmth and the chaos you’d expect from a house where smart people live.
What I remember most from my own formal initiation to music is watching mayo hang on for dear life from my accordion teacher’s beard. He liked to eat during lessons. Same sandwich every Saturday. His beard was shaggy but not unkind, the sort you’d imagine sheltering a colony of miniature life forms fattening themselves on splattered condiments.
I wish I had a beard. I wish I could have left David and Geoffrey some lasting legacy, crumbs of bread, bits of ham, pearls of mustard and mayonnaise on a bed of tousled facial hair.
Then I remember a book they gave me, John – Son of Thunder, despite its title, one of the serenest reads of my life. I remember the inner peace, sinking into the canvas sling chair in the veranda, feeling such stillness I might have turned the pages with my mind.
Sometimes atonement comes silently, unannounced. Sometimes the most impactful music is the rest between the notes.