Another Language

Every soul has a song it sings. When you're tuned in to the inner being, you hear it; it moves you. It may be rhythm, beat, melody, harmony; it may be voice, percussion, or some form of instrumentation such as piano as it is for me. It may be orchestral and it may be nothing more than a whistle playing in the background of your mind.

Even then it may express anger, happiness, sweet joy or sorrow.

What is music that it stirs so many into life? One of the better memories I have of piano in performance was playing for my Grandmother Hattie who'd suffered a stroke and lay mute in a rest home nearly 300 miles from where I lived at the time.

One morning I resolved to drive there and play for her. She hadn't spoken a word to anyone in close to a year. I drove the whole distance with a recording of my piano on tape, playing in the car stereo, over and over. I arrived after six hours of driving, went to the management whom I had not called and asked if I could have her wheeled into the reception room where an old upright stood against the wall. They agreed there would be no harm in that.

They brought her to me in her bed, which they positioned next to the piano. Several elderly folk sat in that room, too, all in various states of condition. I started playing to my grandmother, who'd never heard me play before, watching her and she looked at me too for quite a while. I played on and on without sheet music, just thinking on the piano. She fell asleep finally, but I continued anyway. I played out my soul. I played with everything I had in me because it was the only way to communicate the love I had for her.

At one point, while she slept, I was drifting in some rather melancholic thought line when an old woman, who'd been stooped over in her wheel chair apparently asleep, called out, "Help...help...help..." so softly. No one came to her so I stopped for the moment and went to her. I leaned over and said, "I'm here." I put my hand lightly on her back to comfort her and connect. She asked without looking at me, "Are you God?"

"No," I said, "But I am his helper. Are you alright?"

"Oh yes, I'm alright," she said.

I went back to the piano and played again shifting into something more lively. An elderly man took hold of my rhythm and began to sing as if he were dancing, wordless sounds that mimicked the melody. He was caught up in the joy! He stayed there, in that place of rythm and sound for more than two days according to the people who worked there. They hadn't seen him that happy in many months.

When I finished, my Grandmother had awakened again and was looking at me with pleasant eyes. I went to her side to kiss her on the cheek, but before I could she looked up at me and whispered in a voice clearly that I shall never forget, "Thank you for playing the piano for me." It was a soft, raspy whisper, but the words were clear as tiny bells.

To my knowledge that was the only thing she spoke to anyone in more than a year. She died shortly after that. But she gave me in return a lasting, penetrated reason to play piano from the heart. It's been now, fifteen years and I still carry her memory, her look and her words inside. She visits me in that way at those times when I might lose heart.