Moonlight Sonata

I have vague memories from my youth of weekly trips up to the University of North Texas to take jazz piano with a PhD student named Steve. I remember sometimes the drives, how long they felt in traffic, and the shame of sitting down having not practiced enough, and of course the recitals, the nerves, heart beating out of my chest, walking up in a collared shirt tight on my neck, playing a dumbed down classical tune in front of a crowd. But from right around the time I started high school, all those memories disappear, because I didn't play a single time for what feels like forever, until the moment I rediscovered my old keyboard at my mom's house a few months ago and decided to bring it back to D.C.

That decision was one of the best I've made, and when I look back at the tumultuous time that was COVID-19 and all the many hours spent alone indoors, one of the absolute best silver linings has been music entering my life again. It's shocking the degree that it is still in my fingers, rusty, like riding a bike, but all of it still there, the muscle memory, the rhythm, and to some extent the strength. This all elicits so much from me each time I sit down, one part daily meditation and another the satisfaction of working towards a long-term goal. Like books, I look ahead and see an ever-expanding list of sheet music I want to fumble with and bring to life. Tiersen, Chopin, Debussy, Schubert, Mozart, and that catchy tune from The English Patient are all on the agenda somewhere down the line. They call out to me, ringing softly in my ears.

And then there is Beethoven. For several months I sat with Moonlight Sonata, my first big undertaking upon returning home, slowly moving forward note by note. When I finally played from memory that haunting six minute melody from start to finish, it felt for a moment like all I needed from this period to be happy, hearing this song - written over two hundred years ago for a women he loved but could not have - fill a room by way of my own hands. That is a connection forged across time and space that few mediums can accomplish. But I realize now this undertaking represented something more to me, something deeper and personal, that I think only can be described as immense gratitude - the kind that comes when you regain something you loved but thought you lost forever.

A new home

Of all the details and amenities and selling points that the leasing agents of the world highlight when walking you through a new apartment, it's the nook I gravitate to most in my new Shaw home. The windows extend from floor to the ceiling, and project out by probably three feet, so there are actually three sides of glass and more bright light than I've ever known in a house. I put my yellow chair in one corner, and my old farm desk in the other, and so far, I tend to sit in either depending on the mood or the task, flanked on all sides by plants. I love being still and looking out and seeing the horizon, monitoring the many DC helicopters flying by at night, the unmoving silhouettes of the various landmarks, the lights of Reston flickering in the distance, and the people scurrying about below making big city noise. I try to set aside a few moments each day without phone or computer, right as the sun begins to set, now earlier and earlier in the fall, as a form of simple meditation. I think it's important to stop and notice the many ways no two sunsets are alike.

Recently, occasionally, I've begun thinking about what a move out of this city might look like. Perhaps it is time to finally venture up to New York City, or go further afield again? These are normal, restless thoughts, I expect, given my history, only tempered these days by the chaotic state of the world and a general desire to remain cocooned in your sanctuary. The Samuel Johnson line stays with me: Yet it must be remembered, that he who continues the same course of life in the same place, will have little to tell. 

But recently I drove a Jeep out of the city in the early morning light, passing by the monuments and the Potomac River as life was just beginning to stir, and breathing in that air, I felt in my core that at the very least, I would be lucky to live another year in this place. In the long winter ahead that promises new struggles, I take comfort in this privileged nook, a place to settle, to sit with good words, to have a drink with the best people, and to contemplate the trails walked and the trailheads yet to come as the city forever flickers outside.