Classic

This coldhearted lady spontaneously burst into tears this morning while completing a crossword puzzle and listening to Bach (Suite No. 3 in D Major, BMV 1068: II. Air, to be precise).

I seldom cry, but when I do, my eyes make up for lost time. It’s as if my tear ducts reserve their salty stores for inappropriate, inexplicable moments—a YouTube video featuring baby armadillos, a particularly beautiful passage in an otherwise boring novel. Bach’s Suite No. 3 in D Major, BMV 1068: II. Air.

My dad is trained as a pianist, and his tastes have heavily influenced my own. Growing up, I was exposed to classical music through Dad’s playing, concerts, the radio, tapes, and, later, CDs. I played the piano myself, dabbled in the cello, and sang in several choirs. Along with Alanis Morissette, the Spice Girls, and Weird Al Yankovich, classical music was the soundtrack of my childhood and early adolescence.

The second year after my husband moved to Toronto, he bought me an electric keyboard with weighted keys, the closest to an actual piano our apartment could accommodate. Upon relocating here from BC and beginning graduate school, I’d stopped playing more or less completely, lacking both time to spare and ready access to a piano, but I missed it. With this thoughtful and generous gift came the opportunity to fill that void.

In the following decade or so, I was sporadically motivated to sit down and practise. It was only during the Christmas season, however, that I consistently played. A few years in a row, I prepared a short Christmas Eve recital for an audience of one (my husband, of course). I hoped it’d be a tradition.

I’m now grappling with the fact that I’ll likely never again be able to perform at the level I once did. One of the enduring consequences of my health crisis is nerve damage to my fingers severe enough to make the idea of playing anything but a basic melody an unrealistic prospect. A few of my left digits are especially bad—my pinky on that hand is perpetually curled to the point that the nail touches my palm. In other words, I don’t see any fancy manicures, let alone musical pieces requiring more than my seven or so fully functional fingers, in my future.

I don’t normally care all that much that some of my human talons have achieved clawlike status. Now, though, I’m gearing up for the holidays, reality is sinking in, and—understandably, I think—I’m not super happy about it.

This has been a long way of saying that hearing the initial strains of Bach’s Suite No. 3 in D Major, BMV 1068: II. Air brought me great joy, but it also made me realize that I’m mourning a little piece of me. My instinct is to avoid the difficult feelings by drowning myself in other noises. I don’t have to. Appreciating, listening, remembering, acknowledging that I might be ready, one day, to hammer out a few simple tunes: I’m coming to terms with the idea that as my life, body, and abilities evolve, I can, too.