Moving On

Written by Emily Grossman
Published: October 16, 2013 at 4:28 PM [UTC]

Back in college, it became popular amongst my dorm mates to host and attend scrap booking parties. Not bothering to fork over the cash for impractical decorative trinkets and scissors, most of my photos ended up haphazardly layered in a cardboard box in my closet; I guess I prefer to run across my memories in a more unpredictable way.

Tonight, I dug through the file cabinets. Over the years, they have become so saturated with sheet music, so overflowing with yellowing pages of possibilities, I almost forget what all existed back there. For reasons only I can say, I dug. As an archaeologist would date the chronological order by the depth of the soil, I unearthed time capsules of treasures forgotten--either ideas that came and went, or ideas that nagged at me persistently until finally, I bore their fruit, took the stage, and brought them to completion. A flood of memories from far corners greeted me with a smile and warm embrace.

Here lies the handwriting of my high school piano teacher. Unexpectedly, my parents informed me over the phone last week that she had passed away from pancreatic cancer. I expected to feel some sort of grief at the news, yet it's been over a week now, and I've felt nothing but mindful gratefulness for the presence she had in my life. It's been years since I saw her last, but she more or less has been with me every day, as I follow her teachings and pass them on to my own students. Nothing can take her spirit away from me, for she left her legacy in my fingers, and I'll always hear her voice over my shoulder when I practice. I don't feel any more lonely than before I knew of her passing. I only wish I'd gotten to see her one last time, and a pang strikes me when I think of her suffering. I flip through the used books she mailed to me from Kansas years ago when she cleaned her own file cabinets. Her stickers still make me smile.

I unearthed the Bartok I loathed in third grade, bearing the pencil markings of a girl who hadn't yet learned cursive, reminding myself of teacher's orders. Sing-song playground rhymes mocking Bartok came to mind, and I laughed: too young for Bartok! Just you wait! And this one, a Beethoven sonata, reminded me of the boy I loved in high school. What powers love inspires! I would have done anything for him. Ah, and here's the Viotti violin concerto I'd been forced to learn in college--such insipid coffee. That was the last piece I tackled before hanging up the violin on my way out the door of my music major. For a time, the file cabinet became a graveyard of buried dreams. But this one, Saint-Saëns, challenged the gods. I caught a glimpse of the re-emergent self, the one with high horses and grand delusions. I hadn't the technique to be so bold, yet I got straight to the point because I knew what it was that needed said, regardless of the words I chose to use. Ah, such ignorance... So bliss.

...Then there are the pages of music that burn with pain when you touch them--pages of ideas that simply could not be. Your heart fell in love with them, yet they lay out of reach, either because you physically were not capable, or circumstances bid them farewell. Some of those plans made it to the stage, but oh, so few. Pages and pages of crumpled heartbreak line the pockets of the dreamer. The wind pushes through the cracks of your windows and doors, and it howls. Ah, but perhaps... Who knows what the future holds? I refuse to throw anything out.

I dig through the file cabinets. I'm digging in a graveyard. Or maybe it's a garden. Plant some seeds, make some phone calls. Leave some messages with a few good friends.

Try again.